


steady, love

by celosiaa



Series: steady, love + appendices [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sick Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Martin is not doing well.Jon is there with him through every step.(because I became obsessed (tm) with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: steady, love + appendices [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826410
Comments: 221
Kudos: 541





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's thoughts/memories are formatted in italics.

Dusk is beginning to fall.

Glancing at the clock, Jon realizes with a start that it has been almost four hours since they left Martin’s apartment for Daisy’s safehouse, with him driving Martin’s car. When he first pulled out into the streets of London, Martin had had to guide him softly through the city as Jon’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He had been so gentle, even through the exhaustion that had forced Jon to be the driver in the first place.

_“It’s alright, Jon. You’re doing fine. Just take a deep breath.”_

_“I haven’t driven in years, Martin! I could have hit that person a-and—”_

_“But you didn’t. You didn’t, Jon. You’re okay. Everything will be alright once we get out of the city. I promise you’re alright.”_

Jon smirks and half-chuckles at the memory. Martin had been right, of course, as always. He began to relax as soon as they got out of London and onto the relatively empty highway. Martin had closed his eyes soon afterwards, and was still curled up on the passenger seat beside him, as much as possible for someone so tall as Martin. Glancing at him now, with his head tipped against the window, Jon sees him repeatedly half-open and close his eyes, muttering indistinctly as he does. He’s not sleeping, not really, and Jon knows it—whether it was a lingering effect of the Lonely or his own mind preventing him from drifting off, Jon did not know.

Martin’s dark curls are now streaked grey and white, and his face ashen. These things are the immediate effects of the Lonely, to be sure, but Jon has been worried for much longer about Martin’s physical state. He has lost significant weight in the past months, his clothes now hanging loosely from his frame. Of course, Jon can empathize—he has become almost skeletal in the wake of resisting his… _hunger._ And the distinct lack of Martin’s fussing about his _human_ eating habits has not helped. 

_There is something that I missed. Something I could have done._

Sighing, Jon’s eyes drift back to Martin as he begins to stir. He appears agitated, brows furrowed and limbs pressing his body away from Jon, further into the solidity of the door. Jon furrows his own brows in concern, half-lifting his left hand to press against Martin’s forehead, which has become increasingly covered in sweat. He thinks better of it, afraid to startle him, and pulls his hand back. But as the minutes pass, Martin’s agitation only seems to grow, his movements becoming more distressed. 

_How can I calm him?_ Jon wonders, eyes flitting around the car for something he could do. 

They land on a dusty stack of CDs that Jon had grabbed from Martin’s apartment at the last moment, out of a desire to somehow bring back the _old Martin_ — the one who loved “lo-fi charm” and romantic poetry. He grabs the top album and quickly pops it into the CD player.

A soft, yet driving rhythm begins to play from the speakers, and Jon quickly lowers the volume to an ambient level, anxiously hoping that he did not wake him. On the contrary, Martin’s movements have slowed, his brow unknitting little by little, and his limbs unfurling. With a soft smile that lasts just a bit longer than is probably safe to look away from the road, Jon shifts in his seat and turns his eyes back toward the growing dark.

A few hours later, and it seems that Martin has truly fallen asleep, to Jon’s relief. They had stopped at a petrol station some ways back, where Jon had gently shaken Martin awake and asked him if he needed anything. Martin had entered the shop for a bit, and when he returned, he had, of course, offered to drive. Jon unequivocally refused, citing both the intense black under his eyes and the way he swayed slightly as he returned to the car. No, Martin would not be driving tonight. Jon had downed something with enough caffeine to revive the dead, stretched his aching muscles, and pushed on.

Martin now has his head tipped back against the seat, his face turned slightly in Jon’s direction. A bit of drool seeps from the corner of his partially-open mouth, and his deep breathing has settled slowly into soft snores. Jon is desperately glad that there is no one (save the Watcher) to see his foolish grin at the sight of his…whatever Martin is to him, now. 

_It should feel complicated,_ Jon thinks, _but it just doesn’t. Not at all._

The CD has once again come to an end, and Jon reaches forward to start it over again. It is quite late in the night now, and while he is grateful for the background noise, he does not particularly care what that noise is at this point. And Martin is not awake to complain about the monotony of it all. So, for now, monotony suits Jon just fine. 

As he skips back to the first track, however, Martin jolts awake without warning, letting out such a terrified cry that Jon himself yelps and swerves off the highway. Trying to regain control of the car, he throws his left arm across Martin’s chest as he slams on the brakes.

They both sit there for a moment, panting wildly, before Jon lowers his arm and looks at Martin, eyes still wide. His breath is not slowing at all—in fact, it appears to be picking up, rather ragged and shallow. Swallowing down his own shock, Jon chokes out his name.

“…Martin? Are you alright?”

Martin does not answer, instead leaning forward to press his forehead against his palms. He squeezes his eyes closed and breathes shakily—in through the nose, out through the mouth—in an attempt to slow down his breathing. Not sure what to do, Jon puts the car in park and places a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder, speaking softly. 

“Martin? What can I do?”

Martin flinches slightly at the contact, and Jon removes his hand quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, never taking his eyes from Martin and trying his best not to feel hurt. 

Martin shakes his head, then lifts it, finally turning to look at Jon.

“It’s alright. I’m alright,” he rasps, his voice uncharacteristically rough. He clears his throat and continues, reaching a bit into his normal register.

“I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, Martin, it’s not your fault.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Without another word, Jon pulls the car back onto the road, and Martin leans against the window once again. Even with the music, Jon can hear his labored attempts at measured breaths, and watches his leg bounce anxiously from the corner of his eye.

“Only thirty more minutes, Martin. Will you be alright?”

Martin does not reply, merely nodding and curling up tighter against the window.

The second Jon parks, Martin bolts out of the car.

Jon, slightly stunned, remains seated for a moment, once again swallowing hurt he knows is misplaced. He then drags his stiff form from the car, joints protesting at every move, and walks around to the boot. Grabbing their bags, he watches Martin in his peripheral vision, pacing and running a hand through his hair. Wanting to give him some privacy, Jon averts his gaze and takes much longer than is necessary to unpack. He briefly considers lighting a cigarette, cursing himself for bringing them along at all.

He is not left in this state for long, however, as the gravel crunching beside him alerts him to Martin’s return. He moves to lift his backpack, but stops, straightening up to his full height and meeting Jon’s gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Jon, I just needed a moment,” he says lowly, his voice still unusually gravely and thick. “Are you alright? That’s a long way for one person to drive.”

“No need to apologize, Martin. Really, I’m alright as well.” Offering a smile, Jon chuckles. “As you know, my primary hobby involves focusing intensely for long periods of time, so…I was well prepared.”

Martin does not laugh, staring into Jon’s eyes vacantly for a moment before dropping his gaze and lifting his bags. Jon’s chest aches as he follows suit.

_I miss him._

_I miss him and he’s right in front of me._

They walk up to the front door together, which Jon then unlocks.

Inside, they find much of what they expected—a quiet, unassuming place with the smell of dust in the air. Both men drop their bags inside as they close the front door, flicking on the lights and moving to take a closer look around. Jon sighs and turns on the kitchen light. Dust everywhere, a few ungodly spiders of course, but it does look—a bit homey, after all. Or perhaps that’s his imagination, which is unhelpfully feeding him an image of Martin cooking breakfast, humming pleasantly, while Jon sits at the kitchen table, doing homework with their son…

 _Jesus, STOP it,_ Jon thinks, closing his eyes and shaking his head as if clearing water from his ears. _Just STOP. Focus._

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Jon moves on from his visions of blessed and impossible domesticity and opens the cabinets, looking for anything he might cook for dinner. Or, perhaps breakfast? But the cabinets are, unfortunately, bare save for some dishes and a half-finished bottle of whisky. A single glass sits next to the bottle. Jon reaches out for it carefully, holding it like some precious thing. 

_Oh, Daisy. I’m so sorry._

His eyes beginning to sting, he stares at the glass until a sound from the hall startles him back to the present.

“Martin?”

Upon receiving no reply, Jon sets the glass down and moves toward the source of the disturbance. Light from the open door of the bathroom pours into the hall, Martin’s shadow stretching tall across the wooden floor. Turning the corner, Jon sees him, staring into the mirror, hand clutching his white-streaked hair and beginnings of a beard with panic in his eyes.

“Martin…”

Jon reaches out his arms, intentionally staying within Martin’s eyeline—a wordless request for permission to touch him. Martin indicates no awareness of Jon’s presence. Jon opens his mouth to ask him again if he’s alright, when Martin’s breath hitches, and he doubles over, leaning heavily on the sink. His breaths begin to come in rapid and shallow once again, and Jon sees his knees beginning to buckle.

“Woah, woah—Martin! Easy, easy…”

Jon reaches out then, supporting him as much as his slightness will allow, and guides him gently to sit on the floor, back against the wall. Martin immediately pulls his knees upward toward his face, elbows resting atop them and face in his hands as he continues to gasp for air.

“Hey, hey, easy now, easy…” Jon continues softly, placing his left hand on Martin’s knee, reaching the right toward his face. He desperately wants to ease Martin’s anguish, to hold him, to—

“NO!” Martin yells sharply, and Jon throws his whole body back against the sink. Between pants, Martin continues shakily, “No, I-I—can’t—I’m so—s-so—so sorry.”

Jon’s heart is beating out of his chest, both from the shock of Martin’s yell and the prospect that he might have just made things worse. He freezes, wide-eyed as Martin curls in on himself further, the gasps coming faster, wheezing, desperate. He has to do something.

Moving slowly, Jon scoots from where he sits against the sink to the opposite wall, next to Martin, careful not to touch him. Leaning his left side against the wall and tucking his legs to right, he swallows the lump that has formed in his throat.

“I’m here, Martin. I’m right here. You’re not alone. I’m right here with you.”

At this, Martin’s gasping breaths begin to slow for just a moment, before turning into body-wracking sobs.

“I’m s- _sorry_ J-Jon—god—I’m _sorry—"_

Jon does begin to weep then, silently, still whispering words he hopes are comforting in as steady a voice as he can muster.

After several minutes, Martin’s breaths really do begin to slow, and he returns his deep breathing techniques, Jon praising him all the way. 

At last, wiping his eyes, Martin lowers his hands from his face and closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the wall. 

“Thank you, Jon. I’m sorry you had to see that,” he whispers.

_Oh, Martin._

“It’s alright. I _want_ to be here for you, Martin. I-I _am_ here. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Scrubbing a hand across his beard again, Martin continues, voice still wobbling.

“It…it was just bit of a shock to see my own face. I didn’t realize how…how much I look like _him_ , now. With all this.”

He motions at his white hair and beard.

Jon leans his head against the wall, his gaze never leaving Martin’s face.

“I…I’m so sorry, Martin.”

Martin exhales forcefully, a ghost of a smile playing on his face, unless Jon is imagining things again. He reaches his hand nervously toward Jon, eyes fixed on the ground. Jon gapes at the extended hand for just a moment, before taking it quickly, almost desperately, in his own. Martin begins stroking the back of Jon’s hand with his thumb, and Jon’s heart melts completely into the floor.

They stay just like that for several minutes before Martin scoots closer to him. Jon shifts so that his body is parallel with Martin’s, their legs knocking together. Jon turns to look at Martin, whose gaze is still on the floor.

“You’re nothing like him, Martin. Not at all. And…I’ve got an extra razor if you want to get rid of the beard.”

Martin does smile at that, letting out a quick exhale of a laugh, and finally meeting his eyes. Jon, for his part, feels dizzy with relief. Then Martin brings their still-clasped hands to his lips, kissing the back of Jon’s palm, and Jon thinks he might actually lose consciousness. Martin lowers his head onto Jon’s bony shoulder, and Jon is all too pleased to nuzzle his chin into Martin’s soft curls.

Several minutes pass, just breathing, each taking comfort in the other’s presence. Jon’s thoughts gradually extract themselves from the constant train of _Martin on my shoulder Martin on my shoulder_ and return to his former task, which was to get some food into Martin.

He presses his lips to Martin’s hair briefly, and lifts his head.

“Do you think you could eat something?”

Martin, his head still resting on Jon’s shoulder, scrunches his nose at once, seemingly nauseated at the very thought. Jon kisses the top of his head once again, and returns to coaxing him.

“I know. But I really think we should try. God knows we both need it.”

Martin’s face shifts from apprehensive to something nearing distress at this. Jon notices this at once, immediately softening his voice and carding a hand through his hair.

“What about some tea? And maybe a biscuit or two, if you feel up to it.”

Martin seems to ponder for a moment, then lifts his gaze to meet Jon’s at last, a small smile on his face.

“Yeah, I think I could manage that.”

Jon returns his smile before getting to his feet slowly, his knees popping in protest. He offers a hand to Martin, who takes it, and stands. To Jon’s dismay, Martin sways for a moment as he gets to his feet, and his arms immediately reach out to steady him.

“Easy, Martin!”

Martin lets out a soft “Woah” and leans back against the wall, eyes closed for a moment. Jon’s hands stay firm beneath his elbows.

“Are you alright?”

Martin hums in response, opening his eyes blearily after a moment.

“Let’s go,” he nods.

Jon wraps one arm around Martin’s back as they walk, keeping the other firmly planted beneath his elbow, and deposits him in one of the kitchen chairs. Martin lets out a long sigh, and Jon turns to fill the kettle and retrieve Martin’s tea and biscuits, which he had swiped from his apartment, just in case. With all his puttering done, Jon turns back to face Martin, leaning back against the countertop. Martin has placed his elbows on the dust-covered table, and is massaging his temples with his hands. His face has gone ashen again, the perspiration coating his forehead. Jon’s brows knit together in concern.

“You…don’t look well, Martin.”

At this, Martin picks his head up from his hands and gives Jon a smile, a bit of a forced thing.

“I’ll be alright Jon, really. You’re fussing.”

“Hmm.”

Jon immediately turns around to investigate the cabinets again, hoping to find medicine for the fever he’s almost certain is plaguing Martin, knowing he will find nothing.

The kettle whistles, and Jon pulls some mugs out of the cabinet, wanting to choose the perfect mug for Martin’s sacred ritual. He selects a pastel green mug, remembering Martin’s love of plants, and pours them both a cup. With no small measure of dismay, he realizes that he hasn’t the faintest idea how Martin takes his tea. His chest aches. His _body_ aches with the weight of it. There’s no choice, he has to ask him now, when it is far, far too late to do so.

“Martin? I am so sorry but how…how do you take your tea?”

Martin lets out a humorless laugh, which turns briefly into a cough. When he speaks, however, his tone is gentle.

“Is there any honey?”

_Stupid, obvious. He’s losing his voice, damn it._

“Y-yes, of course, here—” Jon quickly places Martin’s mug in front of him, along with the honey he swiped from his apartment and a stirring spoon. Martin regards it all with a soft smile, and Jon turns to his own tea, adding a bit of sugar. He opens the packet of biscuits and spreads them on a plate, then places them on the table as he sits down. Martin eyes the biscuits warily. Jon sighs.

“Martin, you’ve got to eat something.”

“I _know_ ,” Martin replies a bit testily, rubbing a hand across his forehead. Jon looks down into his mug.

“No, I…I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.”

Jon looks up, smiles.

“I know, Martin. It’s alright.”

He reaches for a biscuit, dips it in his tea, and eats. A few moments later, Martin follows suit, albeit a bit more slowly. Jon watches him carefully as he takes a bite, and then dips the other half of the biscuit back in his tea, popping it in his mouth.

Conversation becomes easier now. Martin even lets out what sounds suspiciously like a full laugh when Jon recounts a tale of the Admiral ruining an entire stack of statements. Between the two of them, they finish the plate of biscuits rather quickly. Each of them notices that some color has returned to the other’s cheeks, and are delighted to see, for a moment, a restoration of joy.

The laughter fades into a warm and comfortable silence, and Jon eyes the empty plate of biscuits.

“Do you want anything else to eat, Martin?”

Martin snorts. “Do we have anything else?”

“Hmm…not really.”

“Then I suppose not.”

Jon stands from the table, collecting the plate and the now-empty mugs, and places them in the sink. He then turns to where their bags sit at the front entrance, and starts to pick them up. Before he can do so, a hand tenderly grabs his wrist.

“Jon.”

He looks over his shoulder to see Martin, his gaze intense, full of effort to convey the depth of his meaning.

“Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.”

His eyes are brimming now, and with a soft smile, Jon reaches up to wipe it all away.

“It’s nothing at all.”

Martin smiles back, then collects his bags, following Jon upstairs.

They stop in their tracks, staring at the unsettling problem before them.

There is only one bed.

After a few moments of silence, during which both curse themselves for blushing so furiously, they begin to speak over each other.

“I can take the couch, y—”

“NO, Jon no no—”

“I-it’s not a problem, you—”

“No, Jon, I think it’s—”

“You need the rest, and I—”

“Jon, wait.”

He does.

“I…I think it’s just two twin beds pushed together.”

“…oh.”

“Yeah.”

A moment’s pause, and then Jon speaks nervously.

“Do you…do you want to pull them apart?”

Another pause.

“…no.”

They turn to look at each other, soft smiles returning to their faces. Jon approaches tentatively, only moving in such a way that Martin can clearly see him. He reaches a hand up to rest on Martin’s upper arm, and the other to where Martin’s curls hang down over his brow, brushing them back, then resting his hand against Martin’s cheek.

“Your hair’s gotten long,” he speaks softly.

Martin places a hand on Jon’s waist, so utterly gently, as if he doesn’t really believe he’s there. Encouraged by this, Jon moves closer, his own hand moving from where it rests on Martin’s arm down to his waist. Martin smiles lopsidedly, tenderly, then cards his fingers through Jon’s disheveled, graying waves, like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He pulls Jon forward so that his face rests against his chest.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he hums lowly, the vibrations from his chest radiating throughout Jon’s body. Jon smiles against him, then pulls back slowly, his arms still resting on Martin’s waist. Martin is looking at him with more love in his eyes than Jon has ever seen, and he makes a decision.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, lifting himself to his tip toes. 

Martin flushes all the way to his ears, and stammers hurriedly.

“Y-yes, yes plea— _mmm_ ”

Jon doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I am planning on writing at least several more chapters, if you'd like to continue. I'd appreciate any and all feedback, as this is my first fic since...middle school, probably? What am I doing!!!
> 
> Have a wonderful day, stay healthy and safe, and remember to wash your hands!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mentions of past emotional/physical abuse, gender dysphoria, depictions of illness
> 
> never bind your chest with ace bandages!!! it is very dangerous--make sure you are safe when you bind <3
> 
> please be careful and enjoy! I'll be updating the tags to this story as needed.
> 
> (this first part is written from Martin's perspective, so the italics represent his thoughts. the second half is written from Jon's perspective, with the same format.)

Martin awakens slowly, as if floating up from the bottom of a pool. Sensation returning to his heavy limbs, he becomes gradually aware of the heat enveloping him. Not a burning heat, not the Desolation—just warmth all around. It’s been such a long time since he’s truly felt warm that he is very nearly lulled back to sleep by the sheer comfort of it all—when a chill runs through his body, and he is startled back into full consciousness.

_Ah. That’ll be the fever, then._

Sweeping a hand over his brow, he curls his nose in displeasure at the sweat he finds beaded there. He startles again when something next to him moves in response. Head whipping around, eyes wide, he prepares to face whatever monstrosity has crept into his bed, when he realizes—it’s Jon.

_God, it’s Jon. In my bed. In our bed._

He sleeps with his face turned toward Martin, a hand lying draped across his arm, hair hanging loosely across his face. Martin has rarely seen him in such an unguarded moment, looking so peaceful, so trusting—his chest swells with the dawning remembrance of the kiss they had shared that night. It had been so gentle, so filled with love, so _warm—_

Martin takes a deep inhale to settle his butterflies. Upon exhaling, his breath catches quickly as he realizes that thick tendrils of smoke are now streaming from his mouth. 

Gasping and clapping his hands over his mouth, he shoots up to a seated position, holding his breath in shock, heart pounding, mind racing.

_Nonono please god don’t tell me this has all been a lie please please—_

He tentatively exhales a bit more, chest on fire—but there is nothing. No more smoke. Relieved, he wheezes out rapid, shaky breaths, leaning forward to ease his attempts to slow them down. His nose immediately starting dripping, and he wipes a sleeve across it, disgusted with himself even as he does so.

_Did I dream that? Was I hallucinating?_

Behind him, a soft noise of discomfort catches his attention. Jon rolls onto his back, furrowing his brow and curling his arms into himself, away from the sudden draft that has invaded his now-absent blanket cocoon. Seeing this sends a pang of guilt through Martin, and he lies down once again, pulling the blanket back over his and Jon’s shoulders. He closes his eyes and desperately prays that it had all been a dream.

A few minutes pass this way, Jon snuggling a bit closer to Martin’s warmth in the meantime. Martin finds himself still locked in the struggle to catch his breath—his nose is now completely useless, and there is a strange sensation of both airiness and weight on his chest, pressing on his lungs. It appears that his struggle to return to sleep is going to be futile.

He sniffs heavily, the wetness amplifying the sound.

Jon shifts again at this, brow furrowing as he returns to some level of awareness. Martin has to make a decision, and quickly.

_I have to get out of here—I can’t wake him, god knows the last time he’s actually slept._

With a well-practiced noiselessness, Martin extracts himself from Jon’s side, gently tucking the blankets around him as he does. Jon does not move again, his breathing still deep and slow. Satisfied that he has not been disturbed, Martin moves silently across the room and through the door.

Martin excels at quietness. This is one thing his mum had praised him for over the years—his ability to be quiet, to fade into the background, to stay of sight and mind whenever she needed. He creeps down the steps in stocking feet, doing his best to avoid causing any of them to creak. A chill runs through him again when he reaches the bottom of the steps and flicks the light on. Looking longingly at the dusty blanket folded over the edge of the couch for a moment, he sniffles again and heads into the bathroom. 

_Don’t look don’t look don’t look,_ he thinks as he passes by the mirror, keeping his head down. He pauses, considering the roll of toilet paper for a moment, before taking the whole thing off the holder and carrying it back out with him.

Back in the living room now, Martin unfolds the dusty blanket, shaking it out for a few seconds before crumpling onto the couch beneath its folds. Letting out a miserable sigh, he tears off a long bit of toilet paper and does his best to clear his head, ears popping uncomfortably in the process, and ends up a bit lightheaded.

 _Better lie back down for a bit if I can_ , he thinks, fluffing the pillow to his left and stretching out as much as possible on the too-short couch.

Before even a minute has passed, however, that odd airy-but-heavy feeling has landed in his chest again, causing his breaths to feel compressed, coming in short.

_What is this? Is it panic?_

Testing this theory, Martin takes what is meant to be a deep, grounding breath—until it suddenly hitches near the top. A small gagging sound escapes him before his body convulses upright, driven by the painful, violent coughs bursting from his lungs, threatening to choke him, ripping through his agonized throat. Tears gather in his eyes and run down his face as he continues, gasping for breath as the rattle in his chest struggles to clear.

 _Don’t wake Jon don’t wake Jon don’t wake Jon,_ he thinks on a loop as he tries desperately to muffle the sounds with the blanket.

Several minutes of this leave him doubled over, his head pounding with congestion and exhaustion. His throat is on fire, but he can’t even drag himself over to the kitchen for a glass of water.

_Pathetic. Useless._

_Loud._

Martin closes his eyes and leans back against the sofa, removing the blanket from his face and listening carefully for any signs of movement from upstairs. With relief, he hears nothing save for the occasional creak of the house settling. He smiles gratefully down at his lap.

_Thanks, Sir Blanket, you worked like a charm._

Sighing wetly, he turns to stare at the pillow still welcoming him from the head of the couch, but Martin doesn’t dare to lie down again. He’d like to keep the ability to breathe, thanks very much. So he settles for curling up against the arm rest, supporting his head with his hand.

_What was that smoke upstairs?_

_I feel quite certain now that I was awake. That it was there, actually there._

_It’s got to have something to do with the Lonely, doesn’t it?_

_With…him?_

Another fever chill courses through him, and he pulls the blanket back up to his chin, curling in even tighter.

_Alright, let’s not panic. Let’s think it through. We know it’s the Lonely. So it’s probably bad, right?_

He considers this for a few moments, coughing harshly into the blanket again.

_It didn’t…feel bad, though. It felt…warm. And happy. Like a weight lifted from me._

_…maybe it’s the Lonely leaving me? Maybe because I’m not alone, not anymore._

He smiles briefly at the thought.

_Does it have anything to do with the fact that I’m ill?_

Admitting that to himself, even just within his own thoughts, pulls a deep sense of shame from him.

_What a waste._

_Of time, of energy._

_Jon doesn’t need another thing to shoulder right now._

He swipes a hand across his dampening brow.

In his heart of hearts, Martin knows that these things—relationships, caretaking, et cetera—are meant to be a two-way street. He’s had many conversations with his therapist about exactly this—ever since his mum left for the care home, he’d been trying to undo his habit of constant caretaking of others. He hadn’t made much progress in therapy, though. Really, he couldn’t even tell her half of the bizarre things that were going on in his life unless he wanted to sound delusional.

Martin half-chuckles.

_If she only knew that the Lonely existed, perhaps she’d refer everyone with the curse of caring too much there. That’s as good a way as any to get it all torn out of you._

He pauses, taken aback.

_What a bitter thought. Is that who I am now? A bitter old thing with white hair and beard?_

He loses some time envisioning this thought, and when he comes back to himself, he is once again lying down on the couch. The uncomfortable pressure in his chest is still present, but he finds he no longer has the strength (nor the will) to lift himself back up. 

_What a right mess this is._

When he coughs again, it’s deeper, more rattling—and so loud it leaves his head pounding again.

_Don’t wake him don’t wake him don’t wake him_

His mother’s voice turns up to berate him.

_Be quiet, Martin._

_Settle down, Martin._

_This isn’t about you, Martin._

…

_…Oh god, how high is my fever?_

His thoughts continue spinning as a fitful sleep overtakes him at last, and he begins to dream.

Jon wonders now if the dreams he’s had over the years have all been this—the nightmares of others.

He had never been one for sleep, work always preoccupying his thoughts, but…this was different, now. Now that he _knows_ what he does to people by taking their statements, the anguish he causes—he’s found himself repulsed by the very idea of sleep. The unfortunate reality is that, for now, some part of him is still human, and humans require sleep after so many hours of tortured wakefulness.

Tonight is no different. Except that it is, wholly and completely.

He finds himself wandering through Martin’s dreams tonight.

He’s in a back garden, a dilapidated old thing surrounded by an iron fence laced up with weeds. A small child in a bright red raincoat and Wellingtons runs haphazardly through the garden, splashing in a mud puddle and screaming with delight as it all flies into the air and onto his clothes. 

Jon can’t help but smile at this young, carefree version of Martin, and he is contented with the fact that Martin is dreaming peacefully. He begins looking for some way to exit, to opt out of what feels very much like spying.

The peacefulness does not last for long.

A large man, who looks so very much like Martin, bursts through the back door of the house, screaming at the child, who falls over into the puddle in shock. Jon cannot make out the words, but as he watches the man approaching the child, his face turns into some ugly, twisted thing. The child cries out, and—

Jon is now inside the house he had seen from the back garden, in the corner of the living room. Martin’s parents are arguing heatedly about things he cannot hear, cannot understand, when he sees Martin—a bit older now, with long curls flowing down the back of his nightdress—creeping ever so cautiously through the house and toward the kitchen. He collects a glass of water without being seen, without being heard, and carefully slinks back up the stairs from which he came.

Jon watches Martin’s father walk out the door.

He moves forward in time, rooted to that same corner of the living room, where he sees Martin again—this time, around eleven or twelve years old. Already he has shot up in height, very nearly matching Jon’s own. He is once again carefully tiptoeing through the living room, this time carrying a stack of very heavy-looking books. Jon realizes with dread what is about to happen a split second before it does.

BANG.

Martin had dropped one of the heavy textbooks, and startled his mum awake from the couch. She yells again, and Martin proceeds to drop the rest of the textbooks from his now shaking hands. As he kneels down to pick them up, apologizing over and over, his mum chucks a shoe at him from where she sits. Martin doesn’t even react.

Jon has never felt such a seething fury as the one swelling in him now.

Another time jump, and Jon finds himself cramped into a small bathroom. Martin appears to be a young teenager now, still with dark curls cascading down his back. He has a school uniform on now—a pleated skirt—and is leaning over the sink, sobbing.

Jon’s heart is absolutely shattered.

After a moment, Martin picks up a pair of scissors from the sink and, with a look of furious determination, mercilessly hacks at his own hair, ringlets dropping listlessly to the floor.

His work done, Martin stares at his own face in the mirror for a moment. Leaning in, an entirely new expression crosses his face—one of realization, of understanding. He smiles and runs a hand through his shorn locks.

The jumps are coming faster now. Jon sees Martin in his bedroom, his chest wrapped in ace bandages, tugging at them desperately as he struggles to control the deep, wrenching coughs erupting from drowning lungs.

Martin is alone in the hospital with pneumonia, nasal cannula in his nose, watching the fog creeping in with a fevered gaze.

He sits alone at a picnic table at university, as everyone passes him by.

Eyes streaming with tears, Martin submits his form to drop out of university.

Jon watches himself slam the door in Martin’s face at the institute. The fog is rolling across the floor in billows now.

Martin returns home to find his home completely barren—his mother moved into a care home, with no warning and all of their belongings.

Jon is lying in a hospital bed, with Martin holding his hand, trying desperately not to look at the grey tendrils wrapping around his limbs, around his heart.

Martin walks up to his mother’s casket. The fog is no longer following him, it _is_ him—streaming from beneath his glasses, his clothes, his skin, his mouth, choking choking choking choking—

Jon startles awake to the sound of Martin’s anguished, gasping coughing from downstairs.

Running a hand through his hair, Jon takes a moment to grieve. Guilt floods him as the reality of his trespassing sinks in—though it had been unintentional, it was a betrayal of trust all the same.

He remembers their conversation from weeks past.

_“The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it?”_

_“You know, I think it always did.”_

He had been right, of course. As always.

After a few grounding breaths, Jon divests himself of the blankets and stands, his body protesting every move. Martin’s coughing has died out, replaced again by the silence—the same silence that Jon now knows has haunted him all his life.

 _Not anymore_ , Jon determines, tying his hair back as he begins to descend the stairs. 

_Not anymore, Martin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! and thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos on the first chapter--I was COMPLETELY blown away with your reactions to my writing!!! 
> 
> as always, I would love any feedback that you have! have a wonderful day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright lads, *cracks knuckles* who's ready to feel something in this chili's tonight????
> 
> WARNING: a bit of dysphoria and depersonalization, nothing too graphic
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. Martin's writing is formatted in bold italics.)

_Oh, Martin._

The pitiful sight that greets Jon at the bottom of the stairs tugs at his heart strings. Martin is seated on the small couch, shrouded as much as possible in a large crocheted blanket, rubbing his swollen eyes beneath his glasses. Jon watches for a moment as Martin leans forward, elbows on his knees, and gives a miserable sniff.

Jon intentionally steps heavier as he enters the living room, doing his best to give Martin some warning of his approach. 

_Best not to startle him._

With the softest voice he can muster, Jon gently calls out.

“Martin?”

His attempts not to startle him are in vain, as Martin jumps bodily at the sound. His head whips around, glasses falling askew over watery eyes, full alertness on his face. Finding that the culprit had been Jon, he relaxes into an easy smile, pushing his glasses to their proper position.

Something warm pools in Jon’s stomach, and he cannot resist smiling in return.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. How long have you been awake?”

Martin opens his mouth to answer, but snaps it shut after a moment before shrugging and turning away, gazing at the floor. Jon stares at his back, frowning in confusion. He then walks around in front of the coffee table, directly in front of him. Martin’s eyes remain rooted to the ground.

“Are you…upset with me?”

At this, Martin looks up quickly and shakes his head with vigor.

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” Jon says, a bit of frustration unintentionally creeping into his tone.

Martin’s eyebrows shoot up, and he shakes his head hastily again. Taking a moment to swallow, he then opens his mouth with determination and croaks.

“I—”

Martin cannot manage any more has he breaks off into a fit of sharp, painful-sounding coughs. He doubles over immediately, hands covering his face.

_Shit._

Jon—guilt now flooding him—hurriedly sits down beside him, placing a gentle hand on his back. After a few moments, Martin sits back up, with eyes streaming and one hand clasped at his throat. Jon’s own eyes begin to tear with sympathy at the sight, and he begins rubbing slow circles onto Martin’s upper back.

“Oh, dear. Are you alright?”

Martin nods, not meeting his eyes. Jon doesn’t need the powers of the Eye to know that he’s lying.

“What can I do? Can I get you some water? Tea, perhaps?”

Martin nods again, sniffling and lifting the collar of his t-shirt to wipe at his eyes. Frowning at him for a moment, Jon stands and begins puttering around the kitchen for tea.

_Black tea, steeped for three minutes, replace the sugar with honey…_

Behind him, Martin sounds as if he’s fighting for control over his lungs, if the muffled sputtering is anything to go by. 

_God, he sounds awful._

Jon unscrews the cap on the jar and pours an unholy amount of honey into Martin’s tea.

Handing it to him, their hands brush briefly, and Martin meets his gaze—giving Jon the sunniest smile he has seen in a long time, watery eyes and all. Jon can feel his face flushing, the corners of his mouth turning up involuntarily. Martin huffs out a silent chuckle before closing his eyes and inhaling the steam rising from the tea. His contented expression quickly falls, however, when something audibly bubbles in his chest upon exhaling.

Eyes snapping open, he gags and pitches forward, tea splashing over the rim of his mug. Alarmed, Jon hastens to take it from his hands.

“Martin?” he inquires anxiously.

He holds his position for a few seconds, not daring to breathe, before it seems he can no longer avoid it. He begins to expel deep, rattling hacks—and thick tendrils of smoke pour out of him in waves. In shock, the mug Jon holds shatters on the ground, forgotten.

“MARTIN? What…oh god, here here—” Jon puts a hand on Martin’s shoulder before turning and looking wildly about the room, bracing to meet whatever threat may come through the fog. His heart pounds loudly in his ears as he issues a single, repeated thought into the growing gloom of their cottage:

_You can’t have him you can’t have him you can’t have him you can’t—_

Desperately, Jon attempts to _Know_ the threat, to understand it—but is knocked back with an overwhelming dizziness, every cursed Mark on his body lighting up with pain. With a gasping cry, he falls to the floor, slamming onto his hands and knees.

Jon loses time for a moment, breathing through the pain as it slowly begins to recede. When he drifts back to the present, all is quiet, and he senses a warm presence at his side. Looking up, he finds that Martin has knelt in front of him, his hands hanging in mid-air, as if afraid to touch him. Jon meets his gaze, and relief immediately floods Martin’s face. He reaches out a hand to cover Jon’s as Jon shifts his weight back to sit on curled toes.

“ _Okay?_ ” Martin mouths worriedly, no sound leaving him.

“Wha—”

Jon regards Martin’s concern with a look of bewilderment for a moment.

“I-I’m fine now, just…what was that? What happened?”

Martin clears his throat and swallows.

“I think it’s the Lonely leaving me,” he whispers with difficulty. He turns away to cough sharply, his hand returning to clutch his throat and tears welling in his eyes.

“What do you—"

Jon trails off as Martin wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve, giving a wet sniff. Jon sighs and squeezes Martin’s hand.

“Hang on, I’m going to grab you some paper and a pen, alright?”

Martin nods, leaning back against the couch from where he’s still sat on the floor. Jon stands slowly, his abused knees aching in protest, before stepping into the kitchen to retrieve a notebook from his backpack. He begins to head back, but stops abruptly, turning on his heel and retrieving a glass of water for Martin as well.

When he returns, Martin has sat himself back on the sofa. Jon hands him the notebook and pen before sitting next to him, placing the glass on the coffee table. Leaning over his shoulder, he watches as Martin bends over the table to write in neat, slanting cursive:

**_I think it’s the Lonely leaving me. Not sure though._ **

“How many times has this happened?

**_Just once this morning. Gave me scare_ **

Jon huffs a humorless laugh.

“Gave me a scare too. But how—how do you know it’s leaving you? That it’s not…I don’t know, making some sort of reappearance?”

**_I’m not sure, but when it happened this morning, I was thinking about—_ **

Martin pauses his writing for a moment, blushing and twiddling the pen between his fingers.

**_—how nice everything was last night. I felt really happy, and the smoke was there when I breathed out, like it was escaping_ **

Martin underlines the word “nice” twice.

Jon blushes to the tips of his ears.

_Get a hold of yourself Jon, for Christ’s sake._

Finished, Martin regards Jon’s flustered expression before letting out a chuckle that turns into a quick cough. As he does so, a small wisp of smoke puffs from his mouth.

Jon clears his throat in an attempt to do so.

“It…looks like you might be right.” They watch as the smoke curls and disappears as quickly as it appeared.

They hold the silence for a moment, both lost in thought.

Jon eventually looks back at him. “Is this why you’re ill?”

Martin raises his eyebrows at this before leaning down to write.

**_I don’t know. Maybe not though. I think I’ve been a bit—_ **

He twiddles the pen again.

**_—run down for a while._ **

Jon’s chest aches.

“…yeah.”

Martin turns toward him at this, regarding him thoughtfully. After a moment, he taps Jon’s knee to get his attention before continuing to write.

**_What happened with you? Did you to try to use your eye thing?_ **

“Yes, yes—I-I thought something might be trying to attack us, so I tried to see what it was, but…it was a bit overwhelming. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Martin reaches out a hand to cup Jon’s face, before moving his lips soundlessly.

“ _Are you okay_?”

Jon covers his hand with his own, giving him a lopsided smile.

“Yes, I swear Martin. I’m alright now.”

Martin returns his smile and rubs a thumb over Jon’s cheekbone before dropping his hand. He takes the glass of water from the table before leaning back against the couch, drinking it down gratefully. 

After Jon recovers his ability to think something other than the constant stream of _MartinMartinMartinMartin_ running unhelpfully through his mind, he notices that the flush on Martin’s cheeks seems a bit more permanent than his own. His forehead is gleaming with sweat again, the bit of fringe that hangs over his face appearing damp. Frowning, Jon places a hand on Martin’s brow, and Martin’s eyes flutter closed.

_38.1._

Jon _Knows_ this without even trying. He drops his hand and Martin opens his eyes, looking vaguely disappointed.

“Well, you’ve definitely got a fever,” Jon says softly. “And I need to get us some food.”

Martin nods, his gaze dropping. Jon carefully monitors his foggy expression as he continues.

“Will you be alright here if I go find the shop?”

Martin doesn’t look up, staring down into the empty water glass and running a thumb along the rim for a moment. He then sits up, picking up the pen and bending over the coffee table once again.

**_Can I come and wait in the car?_ **

Immediately as he finishes writing, Martin begins shaking his head, trying to cross out what he’s just written.

Jon places a gentle hand on his arm.

“No, no—stop, stop—”

Martin does, putting down the pen and sighing.

“Of course—of course you can come, alright? It’s fine, Martin, really.”

He glances up at Jon for a brief moment before giving a small smile and nodding.

With a deep exhale, Jon stands from the sofa, knees objecting to the movement once again.

“Let’s run up and get ready then,” he says, offering Martin a hand, which Martin accepts. 

Ten minutes later finds Jon peering into the small mirror hung on the wall, arranging his hair into a half-decent top knot. 

_This is not your face._

The thought hits Jon like a train, as pictures of himself from uni, from his first day of work, from his first day as head archivist flood his consciousness. His old face…full, healthy, not covered in scars, his eyes still a deep brown rather than this aberrant green—

_Let it go. Just breathe it in and let it go._

_What’s done is done._

Jon does not look back up at the mirror.

A few minutes later, Martin returns from the bathroom and begins rummaging through his bag while Jon sits on the bed, pulling on his shoes. Jon turns from fiddling with his laces when he hears a distressed-sounding exhale coming from where Martin is kneeling.

“What is it?”

Looking over, Jon can see that Martin is holding his binder with both hands, staring down at it. His brow furrowing, Jon walks over to him with a lopsided gait, as only one shoe has made it onto his foot.

“What’s wrong?” Jon repeats softly.

Martin lets out a damp-sounding huff before whispering a reply.

“Shouldn’t wear it when you’re ill,” he says, eyes brimming, and looks down.

_Oh, darling._

“I…I’m _so_ sorry,” Jon murmurs as he kneels down with him. Unsure of what to say, he begins rubbing circles on Martin’s back as he takes measured, grounding breaths.

After a few moments of this, Martin exhales determinedly before placing his binder aside and pulling out a loose-fitting jumper instead.

“Thank you,” he whispers, patting the hand on his shoulder.

“Anytime.”

He gives Martin’s shoulder a final squeeze, and leaves him to it, grabbing his other shoe on the way out.

Jon waits anxiously on the sofa for a few minutes, wanting desperately to _Know_ if Martin is alright, if he was okay to be left alone, but not wanting to invade his privacy.

_Surely he’s fine. He just needed a moment, and he’s fine._

His leg begins to bounce with worry.

Relief washes over him when he hears Martin descending the stairs. Jon stands quickly as he enters the room. 

Ignoring his red-rimmed eyes, ever-present sniffling, and unnatural flush, he looks…almost normal. Almost _Martin._ Jon gives him a lopsided grin, which Martin mirrors, and Jon thinks he sees his face grow just a shade more pink. Martin then jerks his head toward the door, one eyebrow raised in questioning.

Jon barks out a laugh at this, before replying.

“Yes _alright_ then. _Bossy_.”

Martin chuckles a bit in response, before it morphs into chesty coughs muffed in his sleeve, thin tendrils curling gently from his lips. When he turns back to Jon, he is grinning widely enough to show his teeth.

“Rude, making me laugh in this state,” he whispers.

Jon dissolves into laughter again, flicking out the light as they walk out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> griffin mcelroy voice: MY TWO SPECIAL BOYS :')
> 
> thanks as always for reading, for the kudos, and for the comments!!! I am still in SHOCK over how much you all have enjoyed this little story so far, and I really hope you all enjoy this chapter just as much. 
> 
> have a beautiful day, stay hydrated, get plenty of rest, and advocate for justice and equity in your communities!
> 
> bye!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: brief depiction of panic
> 
> hey folks sorry for the delay!! there's been a lot going on--I actually came out as bi to my parents and it's been an interesting time. I'm safe, don't worry! But it took a minute for me to get back into the writing headspace!
> 
> anyway...little bit more angst in this chapter! but obviously still PLENTY of softness bc it's me and I live for that shit!!!!
> 
> please enjoy!!
> 
> (Internal thoughts are formatted in italics. The EYE speaks in glitched text. I have a plain-text transcript in the end notes in case anyone struggles to read the glitched text!!)

Jon pulls the car in park as they return to the cottage, and once again, Martin bolts—slamming the door behind him with enough force to make Jon jump. Left alone now, Jon sighs deeply and rests his forehead on the steering wheel.

_Foolish. Foolish foolish foolish._

_You knew better._

_You knew._

He slams his hand on the steering wheel thrice before picking up his head. Martin occupies his peripheral vision, still standing but doubled over, hands on his knees.

Jon does not want to get out of the car.

* * *

(two hours previous)

Driving through the countryside awakened emotions in Jon that he thought were long since dead. The greenery of it all, the rolling hills, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage—something about it made him feel…

_Serene._

_…I could actually see how Martin might want to write a poem about this._

Turning his head toward the passenger seat, he finds Martin gazing out the window, eyes crinkling at the corners to give away his hint of a smile. 

_Warm._

Jon turns on the CD player, and Martin’s “lo-fi charm” begins to play softly from the speakers. Martin turns his head, eyebrows raised in surprise, before his face melts into a smile.

“You packed these?” he whispers, voice still ragged.

“I thought it might—just—you seemed out of it. When we left, I mean. I thought they might help…ground you.”

Jon can feel Martin’s eyes still on him, although his own gaze is focused on the road. Peripherally, he sees Martin reach toward his burned left hand where it rests on the steering wheel, and takes it carefully. He then begins a gentle massage, fingers working over where some soreness remains from his encounter this morning, then over the length of each finger, before kissing the back of Jon’s palm.

Jon is a _puddle._

Martin looks extremely pleased with himself, and doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

As they enter the village, Jon can sense a shift in Martin’s mood. Though he still has not let go of Jon’s hand, he sits up straighter now, eyes glued to the people walking along the narrow streets. It’s not crowded by any means—especially compared to the streets of London—but Jon must admit, it is rather a shock to recognize that they are not fully isolated, not even here.

Looking up, Jon sees dark clouds rolling in from the east.

_It will rain soon_ , the Eye tells him unhelpfully.

They drive around at a leisurely pace until Jon finally finds the shop. It’s a tiny, cramped little thing, and the parking lot is filled with shoppers hastily unloading their groceries as the sky begins to weep. Jon puts the car in park and turns to Martin, who is still staring out the window with an unhealthy flush.

“Twenty minutes maximum,” Jon says softly. “Just twenty. Will you be alright?”

His gaze remaining fixed, Martin nods determinedly before taking a grounding breath. At last, he turns to Jon, eyes still glassy, but—

_Warm. So warm._

He leans forward, hesitating for just a moment before pecking Jon’s cheek.

Jon smiles then, placing his hands gently on Martin’s face, brushing his fringe back as he does. They look deeply into each other’s’ eyes for a moment, unhurried, before Jon plants a kiss on Martin’s lips. To his dismay, Martin jumps bodily, pushing Jon’s chest back in alarm.

_Oh Christ what have I done?_

Jon immediately leans away from Martin, eyes wide in horror.

“Oh god—I-I’m so sorry Martin, I should have asked—”

Martin hold his hands up, shaking his head.

“You’ll catch ill,” he whispers, eyes full of concern.

Jon freezes, momentarily blinded by relief, before exhaling a brief laugh. Taking Martin’s hand in his, he says,

“If I do, then that’s alright.”

He kisses the back of Martin’s too-warm palm.

“You’ll just take care of me, then.”

Martin’s flush deepens, and a sunny smile creeps onto his face. Placing a hand behind his head, Jon pulls Martin’s head forward and plants a soft kiss on his forehead before getting out of the car, leaving a blushing mess of a man in his wake.

Martin hides his face in his hands, more grey tendrils spilling out of him. He giggles, of all things, which turns quickly into a punishing coughing fit. But he hardly minds, giddy grin remaining fixed on his face.

_I must look really daft._

Attempting to force his face into some semblance of normality, he turns to look out the window again, spending several minutes watching the shoppers with their trolleys and their bags and their children. It strikes him, suddenly, that their greatest worry at this moment was the rain. The rain.

_Must be nice._

_…_

_…are you really jealous of people just minding their own business? Jesus, Martin._

With a sigh, Martin tips his head back against the seat, and notices absently that the rain is becoming steadier on the windshield. It’s relaxing, gentle, calm.

Martin closes his eyes and drifts away.

He awakens with a start, some uncertain amount of time later. The rain is pouring down in sheets now, thudding against the windshield so hard it echoes through his skull. Trying desperately to see through the endless grey, he sees nothing, no one, not even a stranger. Just him and the car and the grey.

_Please just leave me be, please_

His breath begins to come in ever-shortening gasps, and he leans forward onto his hands, head pounding.

_I can’t see I can’t see I can’t see I can’t—_

Jon glares at his watch impatiently, the bright green of his eyes reflecting back at him sharply. 

_Of course. Of course it would be pouring the rain, and it’s been well over twenty minutes._

_Of course._

He lets out a frustrated sigh, adjusting the heavy bags in his arms once again. Next to him stands a young mother with one child seated in the overflowing trolley, another swaddled in a carrier slung over both her shoulders.

The Eye pulls at him, begging him to _See_ what horrors the child in the trolley dreams of each night; what hurt he has suffered, even as such a young thing. Some sick part of Jon—or is it really Jon?—is desperately enticed by the meal before him—his mouth floods with saliva, he’ll do anything just to be satiated—

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head.

_You can’t have it._

_It is not for us._

He attempts to direct his focus on the groceries in his arms, distracting himself by planning for their meal. Some kind of soup is most definitely in order, he’ll make that first. Unsure of what ought to be part of his vague notion of “soup,” he had purchased an array of vegetables and beans that he thought looked appetizing, and threw in some vegetable stock for good measure. Thankfully, he had remembered a conversation he’d overheard years ago in which Martin had argued with Tim over the values of vegetarianism.

Jon smirks.

_Always going on about “good cows.”_

With any luck, after the meal, he could coax Martin into taking the mountain of medicines he’d purchased. Something for the fever, at the very least. Maybe then he’d be able to get some dreamless, healing sleep.

Feeling a bit steadier now, Jon looks back up, in the hopes that the rain has let up. It hasn’t, of course, so he tries his best to see Martin through the curtain of rain.

_Over thirty minutes now._

Jon _Knows_ this without checking his watch. 

Something is scratching it’s way out of his skull, and Jon can no longer hold it back.

T͉̟͇ͤͭ́̓h̥̟͚ͫͤ͊ͬḙ̲̞͑ͣ̍́ ̞̼͓̯͋͒̔r̖̮̙͑̓ͯͬa͙̹̭̘̳̺͐i͎ͤ̋̍̑̂̾n̞͕͕̞̅͆͛ ̪̥̥̻̇͒ͫî͎̰̖ͤ͒ͩs͚̱ͥ͗͊̈̓ ̤̪͋̽̇͂ͣw̙̙̟̰̃ͬ̈́r̺̤̙ͦ̈̂̆ȏ̳̗͈͛͛ͅn̽͂͗ͨͧ̉͒g̠̅̊͋ͭ̓ͅ,̦͍ͩ͊ͨ̚ͅ ͔̹̼̥̽͗̂J̫̖͙̳͊̇ͭo͎͖͓̥̫̒̎n̲̩͆ͧ̾̅̓.̘̼̲̬ͩ͂ͭ ͖͇̦̺͌ͧ̌ ͍͈̮͑̾ͪ͒C̮͖̝͊̄̐̽å̺̹̺ͤͧ̚n͚͉̰̘̫ͩ̃'̫͛̈́̅ͤ͐̚t̪͚̞̫͇̅́ ̥̗̩̙̻̿̌y͓̞̤̻̠ͮ̚ó̩̹̣̅͌͋u͓̤̝̘̹̒̋ ̙͓͙ͮ̾̽͛s͎͍̾̆ͧͦͮe͚͔̫̒ͪ͐̋e͖͕ͨͪ̈ͭ̄?͖͙̲̳̰͂̏

Static explodes through his mind, permeating every thought with anxiety, leaving him breathless.

I̯͕ͩͭͧͪͩt̗̹͉̽͗̄̂'̣̮̤̅ͣ̅͗s̞̣̃ͫ̏͐ͅ ̜͉͈̞̽͊̀w̗̯͔͋̏͆͊r̖̙̈́͐͂ͯ̉o̖͔̟ͩ̍ͨ̒n͕̮̪̐̎̏̑g͖̐̉̏̀͑̅.͇̺͓͒͆̾̏

_It is, isn’t it._

D̟̹̫̽̅̓̚o̲̤̟̒ͧͨͅn̯͓͕̤̽̀ͭ'̻̋̍̏̂̔́t͙̬̙̰ͤ̉̎ ̱͙̯̝͑̑̾y̹̱̽͑̎ͅͅo̲̠͍̼̻ͯ̅û̘̖̯̆͐ͅ ̯ͤ͆̂͌̏ͅN̫͚̺̫̞̅ͫĖ̯͚̠͈̤̇Ē̖̪̺͓̈́̚D̠͙̘̏̈́̇͂ ̤͇̭͕̻͋̄ẗ̙́ͮ̋͂̔̚o̤̲̻ͭ̌ͣ͐ ̙̖̬̖̓̄̐s̙̙͓̺͖̣̋e̯̦̱̳̗ͣͮe̮̲͖̪ͧ̇ͧ?̟͇̦͗͗͆͗

D̳̤̪͆̉͋̿o͈̮̥̿̆̐ͮn͓̺̽̄͋ͫ͆'̘̯͎̊́ͮͅt̠̟͉͗̓̀̃ ͉͐͒͗ͦͫ͂y̦̣̞̪̍̍͑o̥̫͍̒́͛̔ȕ̻̜̑ͫ͛̚ ̻̳̰̝̈ͪͨn̠͚̾̏̆͛͂e̒͒͆̋ͥ̐͐ë̤̻͎̘́ͦͤd̥̟̜ͣ̅̾̀ ̪͚̟̦̎̎̇t̯͓̻̱ͭ̾͛ŏ̖̠̫̇̍͋ ͔̑̄̿̋͋ͮp͉̬̲ͩ͛ͨ̂r̙̝̰̦͑̓̒o̫̤̤̜̍ͪ͌t͔̟͚̻̝̽̅e͚̲͙ͫ̑ͭ̂c̫̳̹̿͆̂͂ẗ̳̦̩̦̯́ͦ ̞̱̉ͭͨͦͯh̰̣̺̆ͯͪ̈i̤̘̬ͭͣͭ͛m̗ͫ̈̽̃ͪ́?̳̩͊̋̇ͨͩ

He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want this. He wants to refuse the Eye its every wish, but he has to _Know_ if Martin is alright, he has to he has to he has to—

He does.

He sees Martin sitting in the car, head in his hands, trying to control his breathing, when suddenly—Martin jolts. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts his head—

He looks directly at Jon.

Jon’s head begins to split.

He stumbles, back in the shop now, wincing and trying not to drop his bags.

“Alright there?” he thinks he hears the woman next to him say. 

He doesn’t respond. He knows he has to make a run for it now.

Martin knows what he’s done.

He dashes through the parking lot, ignoring the rain soaking through his shoes, nearly slipping as he reaches the door. As he throws it open, he hears a loud BANG as Martin slams his body into the passenger side door, eyes wide and terrified and—

_Betrayed._

Jon slows his movements intentionally, setting the bags on the seat behind them before lowering himself to sitting, and closing the door.

“…Martin?”

Martin is still gaping at him with those wide eyes, beginning to hyperventilate. Jon reaches out a hesitant, shaking hand toward him in a gesture of comfort, but—Martin slaps it away rather forcefully. Jon inhales sharply at this, a bit shocked at his anger.

“I-I…sorry, I…what can I do? How can I help?”

Gaze never leaving him, Martin shakes his head rapidly before doubling over into painful, gasping coughs that must be tearing his throat to shreds. Tears gather in Jon’s eyes as he watches, utterly at a loss for what to do, _Knowing_ how much joy the Eye is taking in this moment, drinking in all of their pooled sorrow.

Martin recovers some ability to breathe at last, but his eyes have not softened.

“Just—drive,” he chokes out between gasping breaths.

Jon complies without another word.

* * *

(present)

He has to get out eventually.

Might as well be now.

Glancing to his left again, Jon sees Martin standing up fully now, pacing back and forth in front of the cottage, and he makes his decision. He lifts the groceries from where they had been knocked on their sides due to his speeding, and closes the car door softly—enough to alert Martin to his presence without startling him.

_Again._

At the sound, Martin stops pacing, standing with his back to Jon, overlooking their neighbor’s field filled with cattle. The gravel crunches under Jon’s feet as he approaches, careful to stop before getting too close. They stand in silence for nearly a minute, and Jon takes some comfort in the fact that Martin has not sent him away.

At last, he turns, teary eyes boring into Jon’s.

“That? _Cannot_ happen again,” he rasps, with as much force behind it as his voice will allow.

Jon nearly drops the grocery bags in astonishment, relieved that Martin seems to want to talk this out.

“Y-yes of—of course, Martin, I-I’m so sorry, I just—”

“ _I don’t want to hear it, Jon,”_ he hisses.

Jon snaps his mouth shut immediately.

Martin sighs, running a hand through his hair before replying with a slightly-softened tone. 

“I just…don’t. You can’t do that. Not to me. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I..I’m sorry.”

“Good. Let’s go then.”

Martin marches quickly toward the cottage, leaving Jon staring after him. Jon knows that this is far from over, but makes a decision to be grateful for small progress. Hitching the bags up on his hips, he follows Martin inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plain-text script for the EYE:  
> "The rain is wrong, Jon. Can’t you see?  
> It’s wrong.  
> Don’t you NEED to see?  
> Don’t you need to protect him?"
> 
> thanks so much for reading!!! I really appreciate every single one of you for giving this story a try, for leaving kudos, for bookmarking, for commenting, for everything!!!! So much love to you all. I hope you all have a wonderful day!! Be safe and well!! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've got ourselves a long chapter today, folks!! and posted at a decent time of day too, who would have thought?!
> 
> WARNING: martin's sick! and I describe it a little more in detail here. no vomiting or anything, mostly just coughing.
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. The EYE speaks in glitched text.)

After fumbling with the doorknob around the large grocery bags in his arms, Jon is not surprised to find that Martin has presumably retreated upstairs for the time being. Closing his eyes, he allows himself a deep, centering sigh.

_A bit of separation ought to do us both some good._

The contents of the bags shift awkwardly in his hold, forcing him to prop them up at a strange angle. He crosses the room quickly and sets them down on the kitchen table with a heavy THUD.

Sunlight filters in through the kitchen window, highlighted now in the absence of electrical lighting. From this angle, Jon can see ribbons of dust framed in the sunbeams, undoubtedly landing to coat every surface in the small kitchen. He sniffs reflexively.

_Time to get to work._

He flicks on the lights and throws open the windows, willing the stifling air out of the cottage. After taking out the cleaning supplies he’d purchased and wiping down every kitchen surface, he turns next to the array of vegetables. 

_Where do I start? How does soup…work?_

He ponders this for a few minutes, setting all the potential ingredients on the countertop and rearranging them periodically in an attempt to draw some method from his memory. With some doubt, he decides to chop the onions, celery, and carrots first. Luckily, he is not left to flounder for long— in a single moment, he finds that he _Knows_ exactly what to do. His hands begin to work with the rhythm of a seasoned chef, his movements fluid and sure. 

Soon after, the aromatic soup bubbling on the stovetop floods the cottage with a kind of lived-in presence previously unknown to it. As he works, Jon smiles to himself, beginning to hum some half-forgotten tune. He pops the baguette in the oven to warm it.

_At last, Watcher, you give me something useful to work with._

While he waits on their meal to finish, he takes out the mountain of medicines he’d purchased and lines them up on the countertop. Placing his hands on his hips, he stares at them intently, unsure of his next move.

_Should I go up there?_

_He might be asleep._

_…or he’s climbed out the window._

As if on cue, a creaking stair from behind him causes him to turn around quickly. There stands Martin, pillow creases on his left cheek, smashing down hair that had been standing on end and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

Their eyes meet, and both freeze for several seconds, staring at each other, neither willing to shatter the uncomfortable silence. Eventually, Martin breaks eye contact, pulling a chair out from the table and slumping into it unceremoniously. He props his head on his hand, staring into the middle distance.

Jon’s heart fills with hope as Martin sits down, and he hurriedly sets the table for two, ladling out generous portions of soup and placing the sliced baguette on the table. Taking his seat, he sets a glass of water in front of Martin, back ramrod straight, and anxiously studies the man before him.

Martin looks up then, meeting Jon’s eyes, expression giving nothing away. Jon worries at his bottom lip. He wants to say something, anything to break this awful silence.

They inhale simultaneously.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sor—”

They pause, mouths hanging open momentarily, before Jon continues, words pouring out of him in a rush.

“You were perfectly in the right, Martin. You—”

“I shouldn’t have snapped. I—heh—I can’t really understand what this—” he waves his hands vaguely. “— _feels_ like, to you, but…I should have given you a chance to explain. It’s only fair.”

At this, Jon drops his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable.

“It’s alright, Martin. And…I’m still sorry,” he replies in a soft voice.

A corner of Martin’s mouth turns up, and he chuckles briefly.

“I can tell,” he says, motioning at the colorful spread in front of them.

“Y-yes, well…I did sort of plan this before my actions necessitated apologies. I hope it’s alright.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, dear.”

_Dear._

Martin’s words draw heat into Jon’s cheeks, and he grins into his soup. It is quite good, actually—full of flavor that Martin praises enthusiastically, though his senses are undoubtedly a bit muddled by congestion.

They eat in contented silence for while. Jon’s heart bounds when Martin starts to get up for seconds, bowl in hand. Snatching it from him quickly, Jon delightedly fetches him another steaming bowl full. As he places it in front of him, Martin smiles fondly, and thin grey wisps travel out with his breath.

“We should probably talk about that,” Jon says, taking Martin’s glass and watching the rising plumes.

“Yeah, maybe,” Martin laughs, which turns hastily into coughing— substantially deeper-sounding than they had been earlier.

“And _that,_ ” Jon says pointedly, filling Martin’s glass with water.

“It’s not that bad,” Martin replies, even as his eyes begin to stream.

Jon huffs sharply.

“Well, you’re going to take something for it anyway, now that you’ve eaten. Here—”

He shakes two fever-reducers into Martin’s hand, which he swallows obediently. Jon then turns to flick the kettle on and leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely in front of him.

“How do you feel?”

Martin has the audacity to simply shrug as he takes a bite. When Jon sighs loudly in frustration, Martin looks up, setting his spoon down and swallowing.

“Alright, alright. I’m…better than this morning, I think. Least I’ve got my voice back a bit.”

“Fever’s still there, though. A bit higher, even.”

At this, Martin chuckles again, shaking his head and stirring his soup. Jon holds his hands out to his sides palms up in questioning.

“ _What?”_

“You’re fussing!”

“I most certainly am not! I’m being perfectly reasonable, _thank_ _you_.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Hmf.”

Jon turns back to making tea, pouring a mug for each of them, adding plenty of honey to Martin’s for good measure. As he sets them down on the table, he continues his line of questioning.

“And the…Lonely stuff, then? What should we do about it?”

At this, Martin lets out a heavy sigh, congestion crackling audibly in his chest as he does. 

“Dunno. Seems to come out more when you’re being sweet, though.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

“And I wouldn’t complain about having more of that,” he continues with a sunny smile, tipping his head onto his hand again, eyes full of amusement.

Jon returns his gaze with a sidelong glare, and watches as Martin’s shoulders begin to shake in silent giggles. His own face melts into a smile, even as he tries to stop it from doing so.

_Oh._

_I think…I might love him._

Somehow, the thought does not alarm him.

Walking over to Martin slowly, he runs a hand over his hair where it still sticks up.

“Don’t push it,” he says tenderly, planting a soft kiss onto Martin’s scorching forehead. 

Satisfied with the beet-red flush he’s pulled onto Martin’s cheeks, Jon sits down in the adjacent chair, taking Martin’s hand in his. They enjoy the peace and quiet for hours, sipping at their tea and simply taking joy in each other’s company. 

The fog rolls out of Martin in billows.

Jon awakens with a start, sitting up immediately, causing his head to rush.

_What…?_

Something had woken him, but listening now, he hears nothing but the house creaking around him. Running a hand over his face, he tries to wrestle his sleep-laden thoughts into something resembling competence.

_Something is…_

He turns sharply to the right side of the bed, finding it empty. Alarm rings through his head as he passes a hand over the Martin-shaped indentation on the sheets—already gone cold. Breath quickening, he runs through worst-case scenarios in his mind, preparing to fight whatever had found them here, grabbing the knife he keeps at the bedside. He slinks out of bed with cat-like grace.

From downstairs, he hears Martin’s deep hacking, urgently trying to clear his lungs.

_Fuck._

Jon drops the knife to the floor, flooded with relief that he will not have to fight anything other than illness tonight. Dropping back onto the edge of the bed, he doubles over, allowing his heart a moment to slow as it pounds in his ears. Martin’s fit continues for nearly a minute before mercifully ceasing.

_He must be miserable._

Jon winces in sympathy before standing again, pulling on his dressing gown as he heads down the stairs.

Upon entering the living room, he finds Martin once again on the sofa, curled up as tightly as his long legs will allow. Jon can see his shoulders shaking as he desperately tries to hold back the coughs bubbling up in his chest, his face pressed into a tissue. He turns away from Jon as he enters his peripheral vision, shaking his head rapidly.

“Martin? What’s—”

He’s cut off abruptly by sneezing, loud and wet, that morphs quickly back into rattling coughs. Jon’s chest aches as he watches, hearing whatever nastiness occupies Martin’s lungs refusing to loosen. With a determined grimace, Jon steps over to him, placing a hand on his back, and begins rubbing circles with a gentle pressure.

Unfortunately, this does not seem to help, and Martin continues his half-drowned hacking with no respite in sight.

Biting his lip, Jon makes his decision and begins pounding the heel of his hand over the ribs protecting Martin’s lower lungs.

At last, this seems to break some congestion free, deepening Martin’s cough before he finally manages to get something up. Looking into the tissue for a moment with disgust, Martin balls it up and throws it into the bin he’s dragged near the sofa, sniffling exhaustedly. He drops his head to rest on his hands.

Jon walks around the coffee table to sit beside him, resuming the slow circles on his back.

3͙̋̎9͓͂ͫ̆.̣̖̿6̩

_Christ._

“I’m sorry, Jon. I’m so sorry, it’s disgusting.” he rasps, voice wobbling with effort.

“Don’t—don’t apologize, Martin. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Jon replies in the gentlest tone he can manage, continuing his ministrations for several moments in silence.

He looks up when he feels Martin’s shoulders beginning to shake, thinking he needs to cough again.

To his dismay, Jon sees hot tears threatening to spill over Martin’s cheeks.

“Oh, _Martin_ , no.”

At his words, Martin immediately chokes out a sob, hiding his face in his hands, now unable to stop them from coming. He gasps and heaves as Jon continues rubbing circles on his upper back, eventually coming to kneel in front of him, one hand resting on his knee as the sobs give way to shaking.

“Look at me, darling. Look at me.”

Jon gently pries Martin’s hands away from his face, fever-glassed eyes meeting bright green.

“Listen to me. I _want_ to look after you. I _want_ to. Please…please let me.”

Martin’s breath hitches, tears spilling out again, and Jon pulls his head to rest on his shoulder, stroking a hand through his faded curls. 

They stay just like that for a few minutes, before Jon curls back up on the sofa next to him, hand still moving through his hair as he drifts off.

After several hours of fitful rest, Jon had managed to coax Martin into some breakfast and medication before dragging him back to bed for some proper sleep. Basira and he had planned to speak at noon via the phone box in town, and he had told Martin as such. 

Jon had left a note for him near the bed anyway. Just in case the fever stole his memory.

He has just made it to the outskirts of the village, where sits the phone box. It’s a bit dilapidated, peeling paint showing some hastily covered old graffiti beneath. Jon smirks.

_Martin would love this._

Stepping inside and closing the door, Jon dials Basira’s phone. She answers almost immediately.

“Jon? Is that you?”

“Y-yes, hello Basira.”

She exhales a long sigh of relief.

“You made it then. Thank God, I was starting to get worried.”

Jon can’t help but smile at this.

“Yes, we’re here. I don’t think we were followed, so we should be relatively safe for the time being.”

“Good. That’s good.”

They pause as Jon carefully considers his words.

“Have you…have you found Daisy?” he asks in as soft a tone as he can muster.

Basira sighs heavily. When she replies, her voice is lower, each word measured.

“I’ve got some leads. But…I don’t want to go after her in earnest until I find out whether or not there’s any way she could…be the old Daisy again. The real one. I’ve been talking to some ‘experts,’ as it were.”

“Experts? Wouldn’t that be us?”

Basira huffs out a laugh. “You know, there are other people in the world outside of the Institute, Jon.”

“No, there aren’t.”

She fully chuckles at this, before they slip into a brief, but comfortable silence.

“And you? How are you doing?” she asks, her question heavy with implication that Jon chooses to ignore.

“We’re fine, we’re…managing.”

“Are you, though?”

Jon sighs at this, knowing he has never successfully hidden anything of import from Basira, and he was unlikely to be able to start today.

“The Eye is…getting hungry. Harder to control.”

“Thought as much. You’ve been feeding on innocents again, then?” she asks waspishly.

“N-NO! No, Basira, I’ve been able to resist. I just…don’t know what to do going forward.”

“I’ll send you some statements then. Should tide you over until…well, until the next horrible thing happens, I suppose.”

Jon feels he could cry with relief.

“Thank you, Basira. Really, thank you. You’ve got the address then?”

“…yeah. I’ve actually been there before, you know. With Daisy.”

Her voice grows muffled with emotion. 

“It’s a lovely little spot.”

“It is.”

Their grief hangs in the air like a curtain for a few moments, and they decide to let it be.

_Breathe it in, and let it go._

_Just let it go._

Basira clears her throat and continues, voice stronger.

“Is Martin alright? Is he…still Martin?”

“Yes, yes he’s been…more _Martin_ than I’ve seen him be in a while. Which is saying something, given that he’s quite ill at the moment.”

“Ill? Ill how?” she says, her voice ticking up in concern.

“It’s…complicated. Some kind of dreadful chest cold or flu or something, certainly. But…sometimes, when he feels—”

Jon cuts off, embarrassed.

“Sometimes he breathes out this…fog. It looks like the fog that was in the Lonely, so he thinks it’s a sign of the Lonely leaving him. That it’s a good thing.”

“And what do you think?”

Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I think he might be right, but…I also think it might be what’s making him ill. He’s…gotten much worse, even just since yesterday.”

“Hmm.”

Another silence falls, both pondering.

“Well. Something else I can look into, I suppose. You’re at the phone box in the village, right?”

Jon chuckles, looking around at the smudged glass.

“Of course.”

“Right. Let’s plan to talk again in a few days. Half past one on Thursday okay? I’ll rush you the statements in the meantime.”

“That sounds perfect, Basira. Thank you. And…”

He cuts off, softening his voice.

“Good luck. I hope you can find a way to get her back. And…that we’ll see each other again, soon.”

Basira sniffs audibly, leaning away from the speaker for a moment.

“Right. Be careful, Jon. I mean it. Call if Martin gets worse.”

The receiver clicks.

Jon gets back to the cottage just in time for Martin’s next round of Dr. Sims-prescribed medication, his hair tossed wild by the Highland winds. The downstairs lights are still off, just as he had left them.

_I hope he managed some decent sleep, at least._

He grabs the meds from the kitchen counter along with a fresh glass of water, and ascends the stairs on tiptoe. Swinging the bedroom door open, he finds Martin sprawled across the bed, mouth open and propped up on every pillow they had managed to find. Jon smirks fondly. He then sets the meds and the glass of water on the nightstand as he sits on the edge of the bed. 

3̗͒ͩ9̬̖̊̔.̳̰̓3.

Jon frowns the moment he places his hand on Martin’s flushed neck. It’s down from earlier, but not by much, and still on the border of worrying.

_Dammit, I’ve got to wake him._

Stroking his arm, Jon calls his name softly.

“Martin. Hey, Martin.”

He brushes the damp fringe back from Martin’s brow.

At this, Martin lifts his eyelids halfway, heavy with sleep. After a moment, he turns his gaze to Jon before groaning and scrubbing at his eyes.

_Poor thing._

Jon holds out the pills and the water glass to him.

“Do you think you can take these?”

Martin stares blankly at them for a moment, as though mesmerized by their colors, before reaching out with shaky hands. He pops the pills in his mouth successfully, but as he reaches for the glass, his hands shake so badly that Jon is forced to keep a hand over his as Martin tips his head back to swallow.

His breaths are shallow and crackling when Jon takes back the glass, and sweat begins to bead his brow. Grimacing for a moment, Jon rubs his shoulder briefly before standing.

“I’ll be right back.”

He walks quickly to the bathroom, finding a clean washcloth and dampening it with the coldest water he can coax from the tap. Deep, rattling coughs echo from the bedroom as he does, and he shakes his head frustratedly.

_Why isn’t any of this helping?_

As he returns, Martin has reached the bitter and unsatisfying end of his fit, his chest still crackling with each inhale in spite of his efforts to clear it.

“ _Christ_ , Martin. You sound awful.”

But Martin has squeezed his eyes shut again, leaning back against the pillows in exhaustion and rubbing painfully at his chest. Jon perches near his elbow and begins gently sweeping the cold cloth over his face, eliciting a contented sigh from Martin as soon as the coolness hits his skin. Jon moves lower, stroking his neck soothingly before depositing the cloth on his forehead.

As he does so, Martin reaches up, grabbing his hand lightly.

“What is it?”

Martin does not reply, merely gazing at his hand with half-lidded eyes as he begins to massage it, much in the same way he had done the previous morning on their drive to the village. 

_Oh, Martin._

Jon smiles and runs his free hand through Martin’s hair. Martin’s fingers work over the length of each of Jon’s, before Jon’s gentle motions relax him enough that he falls asleep halfway through his ministrations.

Chuckling fondly, Jon lifts the towel from Martin’s brow just long enough to plant a few lingering kisses there before replacing it.

“Sleep well, darling,” he whispers, moving the tissue box within his reach on the bed and patting his arm before slipping out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basira bb you have the only braincells in this circus :')
> 
> I had a great time writing this chapter! thank you all for motivating me to keep going with this fic. your kudos, your bookmarks, and your comments are the wind beneath my wings!!!! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it so far, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too.
> 
> also: I'm looking to plan my next fic (probably 1-2 chapters, unless I get longwinded), and I'd love to hear any ideas y'all might have! send 'em my way if you've got 'em! :)
> 
> have a beautiful day and stay healthy and safe
> 
> edit: come find me on tumblr!! same username :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: panic, hospitals, medical talk
> 
> ...and this is the one where you all find out that I'm a medical student and I nerd out over hospital scenes!! hopefully it's not too much for anyone-- seriously, let me know if it's not reading well or it's not interesting to you. it's hard for me to gauge because this is my shit!!
> 
> please enjoy!
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics)  
> (plain-text transcript for the EYE can be found in the end notes)

_This is a disaster._

Jon paces back and forth across the main floor, alternating between determinedly walking toward the front door and half-jogging back toward the stairs, panic driving his movements. 

_This is too much this is too much_

He stops now, heart pounding, gripping his hair in both hands. Confusion floods all his senses, and he finds himself fighting tooth and nail just to put his thoughts in order.

_I don’t know what to do I don’t know I don’t know_

In the back of his mind, he knows it’s because he’s _hungry_. He knows it by the way he’s shaking, by the nausea threatening to choke him at any moment, by the simple fact that he _can’t fucking think_. Knees wobbling, he reaches out for the kitchen chair and props himself against it, forcing himself to take a few deep, steadying breaths. It barely helps, but it will have to do.

_Okay._

_Okay okay._

_Think._

_What are our options?_

His mind travels back upstairs, where Martin is currently running a 39.9-degree fever, fully delirious and hallucinating. All morning, he had called out for Tim, for Sasha, for his mum—everyone who could never come to comfort him—with lungs churning endless congestion.

Jon knows he needs to get help, and fast.

_But from where? Where can I take him?_

There’s no phone service out here, and he doesn’t want to risk going all the way to the phone booth and leaving Martin behind. Frustrated, he resumes his rapid pacing.

_Is there anywhere I can take him in the village?_

_Could I even get him in the car?_

He is struck, suddenly, with an idea.

He calls upon the Eye to show him the village, to show him someone, anyone that could help—

The image of a clinic is pulled forth from his mind, and he _Knows_ exactly how to get there.

Turning on his heel, he dashes up the stairs two at a time.

“Come _on_ , Martin I— _oof!_ ”

Jon lists to the side as soon as he manages to half-lift Martin from the bed, overbalancing and nearly dragging them both to the floor. He barely manages to catch himself on the night table, one shaking arm propping them both up.

“Listen—Martin—can you hear me?” he pants. 

Martin’s face remains blank, impossibly flushed. Jon shakes him roughly.

“ _Listen,_ Martin, please. I _need_ you to help me. I can’t carry you on my own.”

Martin blinks sluggishly, and for a moment Jon is convinced he will be forced to either abandon this plan or compel him. But at last, something seems to break through, and Martin looks down at his own feet before shifting his weight away from Jon and onto his own legs.

“Good good good, Martin, good. Thank you, darling.”

As relieved as Jon is, Martin still looks shaky, and he knows they’ll have to move as quickly as possible if they’re going to make it to the car.

“Alright, love. One foot in front of the other then. That’s it. You’re doing so well, I’ve got you…”

For a Wednesday morning in a small village, the cramped waiting room of the clinic is quite crowded. Martin sits next to him on what must be the most uncomfortable chairs in existence, fiddling anxiously with his paper mask. The triage nurse had taken one look at him and ordered him to leave it on, in case he has the flu.

Around them sit many residents of the village, a few of whom Jon recognizes from the shop. The woman with the two young children who had stood next to him in the queue now sits at the opposite corner of the room, trying not to stare at the audibly crackling breaths coming from Jon’s left.

Abruptly, Martin leans forward, resting his hands on his knees, his breaths becoming increasingly rapid and shallow. Jon’s brow knits with concern.

_T̲ͧr̻͕ͅi͙̥̲̍̌p͔̲͍̀̚o̠͙͑ͥ̽d̙̯ͯ̄ͣȋ̠̗̋̓n̩͇͒͛ġ̤:̑_

_T̋ẖē ̽͋ṵ͐s͖̗ḙ̬ͣ ̓͊͑o̞̿̌f̪ͭ̾̇ ̞̍͆̑t͉͉͇͊h̿̍̂͂r̮̮ͤ̾ͨê̦̹̇̚e̘̤ͦ͗͌ ̬ͩ̍̾ͪ̚p͙̖̑ͭͩ̆ó̺̝̬͒̈i͓̤͓͇͊̈n̫ͤ̃̒͐ͩṭ̜̭̥̅̒͋s̬̥̣ͩ͐̓̒ ̮͍͙̤ͭ̓̌ō̝̼̉̔͛̿f̹̙̺ͭ̆ͮ̾̀ ̞͈͍̽͑ͩ͗̍s̪̟̖̤͋̂ͩͅú̟̳͇̰ͧͦ̽p̫̘͔̎̒͊̆͒p̤̣̳̋̍̔̌̔o̖̲͗͒͛͑̿̑͐r͕̺̪̺͚̅͆̾̇t̯̠͌̿͐͋̒ͨͅ,̮͓̞͚̍̎ͫ̈́̚ ̫̰̹̘ͣ̑̅̔̾ö̙͎̭ͮ̂͐ͪ͌f̰̽͗ͤͥ̔͂͌̈́t̺̦̹̀̋͑ͬ̾̀e̠̩̳ͬͤ́̊ͥͫn̘͔̝̳̭̰ͤ̐̎̑ ̫͉͓͒ͨ͋͌̔̉̚i͖̗̘̪̬͗̿̃̌ͮn̫̰͆͆̄͊̉͋̾̐d͚͔̜͉̞̺͌ͭͤ͊i͙̦̜ͭͭͮͦͧͪ̏c̘̖̝̥̩͖̹͊̈́̈a͚͔̩͑ͪ́ͪ̅͌̏t̜̦͈̓̾̾͐̏͒̂i̫̦̲͗̓͆ͮ͋̒̀n̗̮̗͕̅͂ͨ̒͐̌g͉͕̥͎̪ͦ͗͒ͯͥ ̳̟̠͙̣̓̎̅ͅt͕̘̖ͯ̋̽ͦ̌ͅh͍̺̻̭̏ͥ͂ͬ̂ë̝̠͕̥͍́̐̒ͩ ̤̟͔̦͍̩ͧͯ̋p͎͔͈̮͛̓̔̽͆ȁ̟̻͉ͭͤ̾̓̿t̥͈̏͂̊̃͑ͨ͆ị̹̭̫ͮͨ͐̉͆ẽ̜̇̎͂̈͂͌n͖̱̭ͯͬ͋̀̈t̗͙̗̬͑͒ͥ͂ ͇͈͒͑ͥ͌̎͐i̲̩̲ͯ́ͨ̆̏s̰͓͇̭͉ͪ͑̌ ͖̯̜̦͑ͮ̆i̺̇̿̊ͥ̋ͯn̟̟̒ͬ̀̑̈ ̬͍͔͓̜̈́͒r̖̔̑̉͋ͅe͚̭̪͒̽̂s̯̥̅̓͑̒p̗̳̥̤͛̇i̼̲̿͗̽r̺̋͂ͨ̆a̟̝͚̰͑t̜ͤ̒̔̌ọ̬́ͣr͍̻̜̜ÿ͙́̌ͭ ̪̔ͬ͗d̗͎ͥi̟ͤ͒s̪̎̒t̖̝r͚̾é̟s̰s̲.̲_

_Shit._

“Martin? I-I’m going to get help.”

Jon strides quickly over to the triage desk, where the nurse looks up at him with a patient smile.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Jon is desperate.

“ _Please_ , I-I know you’re busy, I understand, but—he’s having trouble breathing, and I-I really think he needs help _n_ _̓ͦͭͨ_ _o_ _̦̝̱̳͋̽_ _w_ _̪̞͔ͬ͌_ _._ _̼”_

He hadn’t meant to do it. Truly he hadn’t, but regardless the nurse is compelled to stand and follow him to where Martin sits. Jon tells himself every lie under the sun, anything to wash the awful taste of it from his mouth.

_I needed to do it._

_It’s fine._

_I had to._

_I had to._

Upon seeing Martin’s posture, her expression changes immediately. She kneels in front of him, resting a hand on his knee and trying to catch his eye.

“Mr. Blackwood? Can you hear me?”

Martin nods, still gasping for air. The other occupants of the waiting room are staring now, faces painted with expressions of concern.

“Can you walk back to this room with me? The one with the open door?” She points behind her at the first room down the narrow hallway.

Martin looks up briefly at this, considering for a moment before resuming his posture. Jon nearly bites through his lip with worry when he shakes his head.

“Alright, that’s alright. I’ll be back with a chair.”

Jon stands in the corner of the room, watching, much the same as when he walks in others’ dreams. This does feel a bit dream-like, come to think of it. Strangers in scrubs and white coats surround Martin where he sits on the bed, still leaning forward in that awful pose, desperate to draw in more air. Distantly, Jon realizes the sounds around him have faded, the people moving in silent blurs. His vision tunnels in on the monitor, reading out Martin’s vital signs in colored text.

**Heart rate:** T̘́ͬ̉ͅO̯̰͈̭̤ͥͨ͗Ŏ̺͈̖̹̓̓̈́ͫ͑̚ ͈̃ͣͮͩͩ͒ͩ͗͛͗̇H̘̰̫̓ͮͪ̂̌̆̏͛I̖̪͙̎́ͣ̈͛ͬG͓͉ͤ̔ͅH̟

 **Blood pressure:** T̘́ͬ̉ͅO̯̰͈̭̤ͥͨ͗Ŏ̺͈̖̹̓̓̈́ͫ͑̚ ͈̃ͣͮͩͩ͒ͩ͗͛͗̇H̘̰̫̓ͮͪ̂̌̆̏͛I̖̪͙̎́ͣ̈͛ͬG͓͉ͤ̔ͅH̟

 **Oxygen saturation:** T̜̖̱͗ͭȎ̖̬̥̉ͣ̎ͦO̼͇͎͈̊̑ͬ̔̀͆ ̪̼̪͉͇̀̓ͬ͛̎L̝͔̺̟ͦ̊̂ͅO͕ͦ̉̏̐W͈

 **Respiration rate:** T̘́ͬ̉ͅO̯̰͈̭̤ͥͨ͗Ŏ̺͈̖̹̓̓̈́ͫ͑̚ ͈̃ͣͮͩͩ͒ͩ͗͛͗̇H̘̰̫̓ͮͪ̂̌̆̏͛I̖̪͙̎́ͣ̈͛ͬG͓͉ͤ̔ͅH̟

 **Temperature:** B̦̗U̅̓̊̓R̘̲͓͊ͫͮN͕̝̣͇̗̈ͫ̒I̳̲͎͉͛̉̏̐͆N͚͓̫̳͇ͧ͐̉̂̋ͮG̘̳̲̲͊ͦ̀͒̊͌͑̚ ̱̮͖̯̺̣̓̂ͪͩ̅́ͅB̻͚͉̙͓̣ͩ̓̃͒ͫ͂ͣU̘̰̣̘͔̙̦ͬ̄ͦ̐̍̒̒R̗͍̞͙̯͖̻̰̔̈́͗̆ͪ̈N̯͚̙̪͔̦͖͔̅͋͂ͭ͒ͅḮ̠͕̮̜̻̤̮̰̈́ͪ͐͆̓N̤͙̘͗ͤ̑̏̊̈̇̅̓ͦ̓G͉͇̗̦̠͇̠͙ͪ̈̿̏̃ ̰̘̤͓̮ͣͭ͐̿̈́ͫ̓B̞̦͎̹̖̒̔̇ͮͤ͑U̮̰̗̹̯̯͌͆͑Ṟ͎ͩ͌́͒ͤ̓N̦̗̩̫͆ͬI̫̘̋ͮ̐N͇ͣ̊G͇

Someone is trying to speak to him.

“…alright? Sir?”

She has her hands on his upper arms, trying to draw his gaze. Jon feels as though he’s swimming upwards through molasses as he tries to answer.

“M’fine, jus…”

“Why don’t you sit down? Here, just here—”

Before he can process what has happened, Jon finds himself sitting in a chair undoubtedly meant for family. Most of the strangers have left now, leaving Martin clear in his view. Thankfully, he’s no longer braced forward, instead leaning back against a mountain of pillows, an oxygen mask fitted tightly over his nose and mouth. Jon looks back up at the numbers on the monitor anxiously.

 **Oxygen saturation:** 98%

Breathing a sigh of relief, he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.

_You’ll be the death of me._

A muffled sound of distress grabs his attention after a moment. Eyes snapping open, he brings his gaze back to Martin, and his heart sinks.

Martin’s hands clutch at the sheets covering him as hot tears spill over his cheeks, their natural path impeded by the plastic mask. His face is anguished and flushed, and Jon can sense the heat rolling off him from where he sits. Alarmed and upset, Jon moves his chair closer to Martin’s left side, prying his hand from the sheets and gripping it tightly in both of his own.

“Martin, it’s me. It’s Jon. You’re alright, darling, you’re safe, I promise,” Jon soothes, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

4̩̥̫͋0̹̱͓̻ͥ̐.̦͖̗̔͑̈1̼̳̒͐.̓

_Christ._

Martin opens his eyes halfway, just enough to stare down to where Jon still holds his left hand. He’s desperately trying to slow his breathing, even with the crackling shallowness his lungs offer him.

“Are you in pain?” Jon questions lowly.

He lifts his right hand weakly, rocking it back and forth, as if to say “sort of.”

Jon exhales sharply, worrying at his lower lip for a moment.

“Are you frightened?”

At this, Martin nods slowly, sobs beginning anew.

_Oh, dear._

Jon shifts closer to Martin’s side, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on his sweltering forehead. Whispered words of comfort flow from him, carding his fingers through damp curls as he soothes Martin’s fever-soaked cries.

Nearly thirty minutes later, there’s a sharp knock at the door.

“Martin Blackwood?”

The man poking his head through the door reminds Jon immediately of Tim, with his upbeat energy and well-groomed beard. The similarity is only confirmed when he steps through, revealing a pair of designer shoes only a fashion enthusiast could love.

At his entrance, Martin’s eyes fly wide open, and he struggles to sit up at attention. Brows furrowing, Jon gently pushes his shoulder back onto the pillows. The doctor begins speaking then, his charismatic voice ringing through the small room.

“I’m Aaron, and I’ll be your doctor today. Glad to see you’ve got your oxygen mask on, there. Quickly, before we begin—would you mind confirming, am I correct in using he/him pronouns for you?”

Martin’s eyebrows shoot up in shock for a moment at this, before his expression melts, and he nods. Jon is half-certain he can see a small smile forming under the fogged-up oxygen mask, and squeezes his hand in encouragement.

“Excellent! And who might you be?” he booms, extending a hand toward Jon with a kind smile.

“Err…” Jon fumbles to release his hand from Martin’s momentarily, wiping it quickly on his pant leg before grasping Aaron’s.

“Jonathan. Jon. Err, I’m Martin’s…” he trails off, glancing over at Martin as if for confirmation. “Boyfriend.”

The word sounds so strange on his lips that he can’t help the way his tone curls up at the ends.

“Pleased to meet you, Jon. Now, Mr. Blackwood, I understand you’ve been having some difficulty breathing. I’d like to take a listen, if you don’t mind,” he says, pulling his stethoscope from where it hangs around his neck.

Martin nods at this, and the doctor places the bell of the stethoscope over his lower ribs.

“Deep breath, if you can.”

Martin obliges, to the best of his ability. Moving the bell to the other side, he repeats the request, before asking him to lean forward and listen at his back. Martin’s shoulders shake with effort now, and Jon winces, knowing he’s trying his best to please, even if it hurts.

On the fourth repeat, Martin can no longer refrain, bursting into a fit of deep, gurgling hacks and lifting the mask from his face. 

“Ooh, sorry about that,” the Aaron murmurs with knitted brows, gripping Martin’s shoulder and pulling him forward. 

Opposite him, Jon mirrors the movement, pulling at his other shoulder while rubbing slow circles on his back. For half a minute the fit continues, before mercifully allowing Martin a moment to gasp for air. His lungs still crackle wetly as he does.

“Dear oh dear. That doesn’t sound pleasant at all,” remarks Aaron, still cheery.

Martin does his best to reward his cheeriness with a smile, leaning back against the pillows again as Aaron repositions the oxygen mask on his face.

Aaron continues, placing his hands on his hips.

“Well, first thing’s first. I highly suspect you’ve got pneumonia, which I’m sure is no shock to you. We’re going to need a chest x-ray just to make sure. That okay with you?”

Martin nods.

“Excellent! I’ll send them right in for that, and I’ll be back as quick as I can to talk about the results. Sound good?”

Another weak smile visible beneath the mask, Martin lifts his right hand to give a thumbs up.

“Righto!” Aaron replies with a wide grin before stepping out the door, closing it behind him.

Martin’s hand drops back to his side at once.

Leaning his elbow on the side of the bed, Jon offers Martin a cheerful smile.

“Well, he was very nice. I’m quite pleasantly surprised.”

Martin does not seem to hear him, instead staring listlessly at the door, his energy utterly spent. Jon’s smile fades as quickly as it came, and he takes Martin’s hand in both of his, rubbing his thumbs gently over his knuckles.

A few moments pass before Martin’s chest begins to convulse alarmingly.

“Shit. Here, here, lean forward, lean forward—”

Jon pulls him up immediately, head lolling toward his chest, and pounds the heel of his hand into Martin’s lower ribs.

The coughs that result are that of a drowning man, impossibly deep and choking and _exhausted_. Jon’s eyes sting as worry burrows into his heart, his chest aching as several minutes go by without respite. He’s come to realize that he is helpless—all he can do is rub at Martin’s back and pray to whatever benevolent being might be listening.

At long last, the fit subsides, and Martin is mercifully able to take a deeper, stabilizing breaths. Glancing up at the monitor, Jon is pleased to see his oxygen saturation steadily climbing as he breathes through the mask.

“That’s it, darling. You’re alright.”

His eyes begin to droop soon after, and Jon guides him gently back to his propped-up position, brushing the fringe from his face and cupping his scorching cheek. Astonishingly, Martin finds the strength to reward him with a smile and a weak thumbs-up.

Joy floods Jon’s heart, pulling both laughter and relieved tears from him.

_You idiot. I love you._

Jon strokes Martin’s arm gently as he drifts off, watching his chest rise and fall with deepening sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noo martin please don't die you're so sexy aha
> 
> transcript for the EYE:  
> \- "Tripoding: the use of three points of support, often indicating the patient is in respiratory distress."  
> -"...he needs help now."  
> -" Heart rate: TOO HIGH, blood pressure: TOO HIGH, oxygen saturation: TOO LOW, respiration rate: TOO HIGH, temperature: BURNING BURNING BURNING"  
> -"40.1"
> 
> thanks as always for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and commenting!! omg!!! a couple of quick things:
> 
> 1\. I'll be tied up this weekend until Sunday, so I'll be unable to update on my usual schedule. I have the next chapter all outlined and ready to rumble, so I'll probably get it to you Sunday night.
> 
> 2\. there are only two more chapters left!! I can hardly believe it!!! that being said, I am taking prompts for the next fic if you've got 'em, and I am not opposed to writing more fic in this same verse. drop me a line and let me know what you want to see! 
> 
> you can also find me on tumblr @celosiaa if you want to come chat <3
> 
> anywayyyyy thank you so much for reading!!!! love to all of you, have a beautiful day!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: hospitals, medical talk, mention of addiction
> 
> sorry this is a little late!! I got caught up in the Tenderness (TM).
> 
> please enjoy!
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. The EYE speaks in glitched text.)  
> (plain-text transcript for the EYE can be found in the end notes)

P͕͚̩̺̺͉̻̟̈̑͛́͊͊̿̉ͤ̏n̜̺̩̺̦̤͐́̏̔̃eum͍o͙̤̬̫̱̲͍̜̘͐͒̆ͫ̂̾ͦͫ̽̾ṉ̙̠̪̝͌̿ͮ̆̉ia ͖ͮS̖̺̬̘̫ͨͨͪͦͨͬ̂̒͗͂̈́̾͒̚e̪̺̫̻͈ͥͩͨ̎̄ver̞͐̿ï͖̥̞̗͖̣̩͇͎̭͎͙͗ͮ̊̅̚ͅṭ̓ͪ̎̅ͯ̊̚ͅy I̥͆̽ͧn̫̯̯̯̤̒̃͐ͥ̽̓̋͗ͮ̑ͧͤ̊ͅḓ̮̦͈̑͑̋̽ex ̰̔̐̓̆S̳͙̤͓̫̟̹͉͙͋̓͊̃͆̽̓ͩ̆̚c̬̜̍̿̓̆̈ore͈ͦͣ͛̐͐:̰̹͎̝̬̟̳̦̤̠̬͋̅̓ͭ̍̋ͦ̚

Å̯̲̬̭̗̗̫̮̞͎̖̙̭̱̹̪̣̟̱̑̀ͮ͂͛ͨ̆ͣ̍͂̆ͤ͒̄͊̉ͅ c̬̼̊̋̌̉̈̇l͙̰̤͉̞̣͔̦̘̬̖͖͛͌͐͒̓͛̐̂ͧ͋̑̏̑ͨ̊̊́̅ͅͅin͎͙̭͎̘̻̦̰̬̐͆̽ͧ͒͑i̮̩̦͙̮̺͔̫͖͉̭͉͈̦̫̥̹ͧͪ̍̒̔̈ͦͨͥ́ca̺̘͓̻̼̜̼͉͚̼͙ͪ̐̓̍̇͋̀̆̉͆ͫl̘̘͕͚̝̦͈̯̬ͧ̍͑ͣ̑ͦ͒̒ͮͅͅ t̥̫̮̘̞̝̰̣͔͍̎ͬ̆̓̓̈̈̑̒̄͒̏̒ͫͫ̚̚ͅo͖͇̻̜̻̐ͯ͂ͤ͆̋ͭ̾ol̝̖̗͓͙͙̤̗̗̟̝ͥͨ́ͧ̿͑͒̈́̎͒ͫͭͣͪͨ̋ͨ̒͆̌̿̃ ͖͙͈͊ͧ̈fo̮̻͍̺̹̦͔̩͍̙͔̪̮͆̂ͮ̑́ͫ̆̅̊̄ͯͥ͛̌̈ͧ̇ͧ͂ͨ͒̾̄̽̚r m͕͓̣̱̪̜̮̮̱̜̟̮͕̥̱̜̲̫̼̠̗̄ͨ̿̃ͦ̂ͦ͒͂̽ͣ̂ͥ̈́ͩ̌̐̏ͦ̚eas̼̰͔̠̤̳̳̪̘̝̤͚̞͔̗͈̝ͯ͛͆ͫͪ̓́̌̏̀ͫ̈̂́̑͐̑ͭͫ͌͌ͫ̂ͨͣ̚uri̩͓̦͎̬͔̰̞̝͎͕̬̟͎͖̫̟̻͚͕̙͉̣̫͑͌̈́̃͑̄̒̄̋̈̄̿͒͐ͨ̀ͯ̈́͐̚ng ̗̺̗̱͎̜̩͚̭̩̱̙̃̂ͣ̀̐ͣͩ̇ͣ̓͊ͤ͛ͮ̔̊̓͆͆́ͦͫ͗̆ͮ̅̆̿̂̉̔ͅthė͇̤̰̹͔̗̳̜̠̠̰̖̟̥̫ͤͯ̎̎̌̽̈ͮͥͭ̾ͩͯ̃̑ͣͥ͑̀ͧ͂́ͩ̏̍̌ lî͈̠̟͔̫̟̦̱͚̬̫̹̿̉ͯ̐ͥ͆ͣͨͤͫ͒́ͨͨͪ̽ͧͥͦ̋͛̎̊ͬ͑ͅke̘̦͎̹l̪̭͓͙̤̗̺̫͔̲̦̻̞̦̎̄͗͐̐̓̎ͧ̿̇ͬ̔̇̅̐̆̽̑̾̈́̓ih̻̞̪̘̾̅̅ͮ͒ͮ̽ͦo͇̞͈͕͎̣͙̰̭͇ͮ̔̐̃ͨͮ̇͐̒́͆͑ͪ̀̒̂̍̄̚̚od̯̖̪̪͔̎̒͌͂͂̂̿́̒̔ͤ͑̚ͅ ̰͕̤̹̠̞̩̞̰̭̦̎͑̉̂̏̍̔̊̌ͭ̚ͅͅof̱̪̠̼̞̬͈͚̉̆̓ͯ̂ͣ͆͛͐͒̿̓̀̀͆ͩ͌ ͈͙͕̥̥̑ͭ̀ͭ̀ͫ͆̎̿̌̀̓mo̲̳͇̻̰͖̼͔̯̯͍̮̘͑͛̓͌̑ͤ̑̀ͬͬ̐̊ͭ̌̑̐̏́r̝̭̫̙̺̔̈ͬͦͅtā̞͉̲̙̭̫̤̗̤̜͙̥̥̞̪̙̲̬̃̌͑ͨ̂͐̿ͨͦ̂ͨ̾̓͌̆̚ͅl̤ͮit͍̳̺̰̠̻̣͔̜͕͓͙̭̞͂̆̅͆ͬ̽̎̇̃̂̂͛ͥ̒ͫͣͧ̑̇̎͂ͥ͒̅̚ͅy f̙̯̳̞̝͇͚͓̥͕̹̦̫̹̯̤̬̼̤̜̽̎̆̿̅̍ͭ̏ͭ̽̊̌̌͆͊ͥ͊̋̍̓͛ͅͅrom̥͉̹̲̠̗̩̻̼̫͖͈͔̭̣͓͉̳̰̋̌̌̎͑ͦͧͥ́͒͒̉͑͗͊̍͆ͫ̒̓͗ͬ̚̚̚ pn̯̼̹̝̠̥̫͍̭̞̹̞͇̘̳͙͕̹̗̯̱̳̙̻̖͂̒͑̇̏̔̅̏̿́ͤ̈́ͨͪ̿̉̒̔̋eum̟̭̙̞̼̩̘̦̗̣̮̳̞͈̜͓͕͗̂ͪ̀̐̓̉̑ͣͮͣͤ͂̽̈̋͂͌̐͒͂̏̃ͤͣ̚onĭ̯̼̩̥̙̙̱̙̱͕̞͚̯̩̗̝̰̓̓̎̿̆ͫ̎͌͆ͧͣͫ́̂̉̉̇ͪ͂͋̔̚ͅa.ͮ

A͙͓̯̘̻͇͎̱̝̣͓̱ͦ͛̇ͨͭ̄͊́̈́̚ ̜͚̲͕͍̤̜̖̙͎̣͋̋ͤͦ̋̂́ͨ̂ͤ͗s̱core̫̤̳̣̖̗͖̮̐ͦͩͪͦͭ̈̓ͯͩ̒̊͋ͅ ̪̼̟͇̺̜͖͖͕̭̗͎̇̓̀̓ͯ̋̿̂ͤͮi̭s gi̜̻͓̜̝͖͍͊͋̇̄͐ͤͬͤ̍͊̃̒ͬ̃̚v̝̗̲̦̦̟̺̫̤͎̂̄̈̃ͭͫ̍͐̔͑͆̚e̯n ba͇̰̙̲̰̤͉̟̖̎ͭ̇̀̌̏̈́͑͑̾̈́̓ͅs͚̤̩͈̰̗̪̩̗͔͌ͣ̅͛̌̑͋̊ͮͭ͗ͬe̅d up̬̝̱̲͔̙̤͇̮̯̎̓̿ͫ̍ͨ̾ͮ̄ͮͧ̚ȍ͈̞͈̞̠̝͖͎̩ͧ͒̅̐̍ͪ̋͆ͧ̒͆ͅn the̗̦͕̯̦̠̙̝̝̙̭͍̅͐ͥͨ̽̇ͧͮ͌͐ ͓̫̮͖̤̺̗̪̜̖̮ͪ̌͋̓̆̌ͫ̆̆̈́̿follọ̰͉̩̥̬̪͕̤̼́ͧ̈́̌̈́̈̾͋͒̊̂͋ẅ̥̞͙̟̺̫̮͙͖͎̥́̿ͫ̏ͣ͆̌ͮͤ̌̚ing f̹̖̰̱̹̳̣̗̱̜ͥ̐̈ͮͬͥ̋̌ͮ̏̆̚ä̻̞͎̤̯̬̼́̆̏̓ͫ͐ͦ̐̉̃ͦ̈́̋̔ͅctors̩̤͉͎̰̙͚̍̑ͣ͗͌ͤ̓̐͊ͥͭ̇͌ͯͪ:̯̰͔̺͍͇̓ͪͨ͊̈ͩ̋ͬ̉̍̒̌̌̎̚ͅ

_God, shut UP._

Jon buries his face in his hands, the familiar hunger-driven brain fog beginning to settle in. It’s been nearly thirty minutes since Martin had his x-ray, and he’s been dozing ever since. Left with nothing but the silence for company, Jon’s head has been spinning with information that he doesn’t want, he doesn’t need, he doesn’t _understand_.

He rubs at his eyes.

_Christ, I am exhausted._

Before he can sink further into his misery, there is a sharp rapping on the door, and Jon is forced to pick up his head and push wearily forward. Martin’s eyes flutter open along with the door, which reveals Aaron, cheery as ever.

“Hi again, how are we doing in here?” he says, flashing a wide smile in Martin’s direction.

Eyes still half-lidded with sleep, Martin gives yet another thumbs up in response. At this, Jon cannot help but roll his eyes and sigh, sharing a sidelong look with the doctor. Aaron returns the look, nodding at Jon in acknowledgment before he continues.

“That good, eh? Well, the results are in, and—drumroll please…”

With a flourish, he slides Martin’s x-ray in front of the lightboard and points at dense-looking white spots on Martin’s lungs.

“You’ve got a pretty significantly sized infection in your left lung, with a small spot of infection in your right. Which means that it’s a double pneumonia, and a pretty nasty one at that. But you knew that already, I’d wager.”

Martin lets out a faint sigh, and nods. Seeming to sense his growing fatigue, Aaron lowers himself to sitting on a rolling stool, and turns to address both Martin and Jon in a softer voice.

“What happens next is this: we need to get that fever down a bit and get you some antibiotics. So we’re going to keep you here for a few hours while we get you those, as well as an IV to get you some liquids, and see what happens from there. If you seem to be doing better, we’ll send you home with oral antibiotics and oxygen, in case you need it. If not, we’re going to have to send you to the hospital in Aberdeen for treatment tonight, since I can’t keep anyone overnight here. Does that all make sense?”

Sending a glance towards Martin, Jon squeezes his hand to elicit some sort of response, but he merely continues to stare at the doctor, blinking owlishly. Jon clears his throat.

“Err, yes—that makes perfect sense, thank you,” Jon replies for him, certain that Martin had not taken in anything that had just been said.

“Happy to help,” Aaron replies, shooting Jon a lopsided grin. “Anything else I can do for you in the meantime?”

Jon takes a moment to think, watching as Martin’s eyes droop closed once again.

_Basira. She’ll want to know._

“Actually, yes—is there a phone I can use here?”

“’Course, just take a right down the hall. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

Aaron stands from his stool then, clapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“No trouble! Isla—Martin’s nurse—will be around to get all that stuff to you. I’m just a shout away if you need me, alright?”

“Right. Thank you, Aaron.”

He dims the lights as he exits, closing the door behind him. Turning his attention back to Martin, still drifting into fever-induced slumber, Jon takes up his left hand again, holding it in both of his own. Slowly, nervously, he begins working his fingers over Martin’s palm, clumsily imitating Martin’s well-practiced massage technique. He looks down at his own hands, scowling at the scars peppered across them, faded and pale against the dark of his skin.

_My hands are too rough, this is foolish._

He is proven definitively wrong when Martin lets out a soft sigh of contentment, fogging up the mask instantly. 

Jon grins from ear to ear and keeps going. 

(13:37)

His left knee aches as he walks unevenly toward the hall phone, old injury pulling at him in the wake of half-carrying Martin to the car that morning.

_Should have brought my brace._

Martin has been sleeping on and off for the past few hours, rousing only to cough or smile pleasantly at Isla when she comes by to tend to him. He’s been set up with IV fluids and fever reducers since noon, and his first dose of antibiotics went down with little issue. Left only with the prospect of waiting to see what happens, Jon finally feels comfortable enough to leave a sleeping Martin in the room for a while to call Basira, grab some coffee, find a bite to eat, and—

_No, you will NOT smoke today. Not an option._

Reaching the phone, Jon hesitates for a moment, mulling over what to say before finally dialing Basira’s number. She lets it ring out a few times before picking up brusquely.

“Hussain speaking.”

“Basira? It’s Jon.”

“Jon? I don’t recognize this number. Where are you? What’s going on?” she asks rapidly, voice ticking up in concern.

“I’m calling from the village clinic. You said to call if Martin got worse, and…well, he has.”

“ _Shit_. What happened? Is he alright?”

Jon sighs exhaustedly, running a hand through his hair. He can’t quite keep his voice from shaking.

“I’m…not sure, yet. They’re keeping him under observation for the rest of the day to see if he needs to go to the hospital.”

“Jesus _.”_

“He was running a fever of nearly 40 this morning and sounded like…well, like he couldn’t breathe, so I took him here for help. Apparently he’s got pneumonia. He’s fallen asleep, so…I thought I’d call to let you know.”

“Oh, _Jesus_.”

“Y…yeah.”

Jon’s voice breaks roughly.

“How are _you_ holding up?” she asks, in what might be the gentlest tone Jon has ever heard from her.

A lump forms immediately in his throat, making his eyes sting and his vision swim at the edges. 

_Pull it together, come on._

Tipping his head back for a moment, he blinks away the tears and takes a damp, shuddering breath that must have been audible on the other end.

“Hey, _hey_ , it’s alright,” she soothes, her voice nearly a whisper. 

Jon clutches at the receiver, as if it will somehow bring her closer.

“I-I’m fine, Basira. Just…just tired. And worried,” he says, voice thick.

“And hungry?”

“…yes.”

She sighs at this, pulling her phone away from her face for a moment. Jon braces for her tone to be harsh upon her return, but to his relief, it remains decidedly softened— _understanding,_ even _._

“The statements should be there by tomorrow. So there’s something good, at least.”

“R-right. Something good.”

Silence falls for a moment before Basira continues, her voice returning to her usual matter-of-fact register.

“He’s going to be alright, Jon. Even if he does have to go to the hospital. He’ll recover, and then you can get back to your usual hopeless pining.”

At this, Jon can’t resist huffing out a laugh.

“Well…it’s not so hopeless anymore, actually.”

She gasps in shock.

“You’re _joking!_ You actually went for it, then?”

“Not-not exactly, it just sort of…happened. I don’t know exactly how, but—yeah. It’s…good. Really good, actually,” he stammers, unable to keep his smile from bleeding into his tone.

“God, listen to you. You’re like an enamored schoolboy,” she replies fondly.

Jon sputters in mock-indignation, pulling a hearty laugh from Basira.

“Well, I’m happy for you both. You deserve something lovely, for once.”

“So do you, Basira,” Jon replies softly.

“…thanks.”

They allow the silence hang for a moment. Basira then exhales sharply before continuing.

“Well, enough of the mushy shit. Let me know what the doctors say, alright? And tell Martin I hope he feels better soon.”

“I will. Call you later, then.”

“You’d better.”

She hangs up on him, as always.

(14:43)

Half-empty coffee and a bagel in hand, Jon walks back to Martin’s room from where he had been standing outside, fiddling with an unlit cigarette for the better part of an hour. It had taken everything in him, but he had managed not to light it, instead walking back through the clinic doors and deciding to snag some food on the way back to the room. He cannot help the guilt welling up inside—for his struggle, for the way his hands are shaking, for bringing the cigarettes with him in the first place—

He opens the door to see Martin smiling back at him, and it all fades away.

Cheeks flushed and face pale, Martin is half-sitting in up in bed now, the heat no longer rolling off him with such vicious intensity as before. His oxygen mask has now been replaced with a nasal cannula, allowing Jon a clear picture of the sunny smile Martin offers so freely.

Something warm tugs at Jon’s heart, and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“Well, well, look who’s got an upgrade,” he says lightly, stepping toward the bedside.

Martin’s own smile widens at this, and he reaches out for Jon’s hand as he sets his coffee and bagel on a nearby table. Scooting his chair closer before sitting, Jon gently takes Martin’s hand in both of his own, closing his eyes and lowering his lips to the back of Martin’s palm.

3̙̩8͖̓͊.̘̹̎7͖̏.͙

_At last._

Jon smiles against Martin’s hand for a moment before looking back up.

“Your temperature’s down,” he says, trying not to sound as dizzy with relief as he feels.

Martin nods quickly before clearing his throat, causing something to catch in his chest. Turning away at once, he presses his face into his elbow as heavy-sounding coughing erupts from him, causing Jon’s brows to knit closer together in worry with every moment that passes. Mercifully, the coughs fade away after about fifteen seconds. Martin flops back gracelessly against the pillows, panting and exhausted.

And still smiling.

“Lucky to have you,” he rasps, lifting a hand to Jon’s cheek.

Jon leans closer, expression lightening, and brings up a hand to press against Martin’s palm where it rests.

“Lucky to have _you,_ ” he whispers, gazing intensely into the warm hazel of Martin’s eyes.

They remain like this for several seconds, neither wanting to violate the sanctity of this moment. Martin then inhales sharply, mouth open to say something—before snapping it shut again, looking suddenly nervous. Jon’s brows furrow instinctively.

“What is it, darling?” he asks, head tilting to the side of Martin’s palm.

The corners of Martin’s mouth curl up at the term of endearment, pulling a deep flush to his cheeks and ears. Looking up again, he determinedly matches the intensity of Jon’s gaze.

“I…I love, you, Jon.”

He inhales more confidence.

“I _love_ you. Just… _so_ _much_.”

Every nerve in Jon’s body is _on fire_. Vacantly, he knows that his mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide, his face flushing with heat—but for a moment, he cannot move, nor breathe, nor speak.

_Martin LOVES me._

_Martin loves ME._

At last, he regains some measure of control, managing to keep hold of Martin’s left hand while shifting his weight to sit on the edge of his bed. Reaching out his other toward his face, he cups Martin’s cheek with a still-shaking hand. Their faces are just inches apart now, hovering, begging to be pressed together.

“I love you too, Martin Blackwood. More than…more than I know how to say.”

Martin smiles then, wide and charming, before craning his neck up to brush his lips against Jon’s, questioning.

“Say it like this, then?” he whispers.

“Gladly.”

Their lips meet in a gentle blush of a thing, hesitant and brief, before deepening into a warm, unhurried kiss. Martin’s hands move into Jon’s hair as they find the perfect rhythm, gentle and passionate and utterly their own. When he manages to pull small noises of pleasure from Martin, Jon grins against his lips in pride before pulling him back in for more.

After nearly a minute, Martin urgently pushes back against Jon’s chest. Immediately breaking contact, Jon pushes himself away frantically, careful not to touch him, panicked at the thought that he’d done something wrong.

“M-Martin, I’m _so_ sorry, what ha—”

He is cut off as Martin pitches forward violently, coughing deeper than Jon has ever heard—as thick grey fog pours from his mouth, his eyes, his nostrils.

“God, Martin, here, here—”

Jon braces him by the shoulders as he leans forward, chest rumbling in desperation to clear the way for oxygen. Guilt floods Jon as he feels the force of Martin’s convulsions beneath his hands.

 _ Why _ _did you kiss him? Damn it damn it damn it_

Dense fog is filling the room now, and Jon is struck with terror at the thought of anyone entering the room to see this. The tendrils have nearly reached the door, could snake beneath it at any moment—

Tͮ̀h̥ͫ̎̂ë̗̹̯̜y̬͔͖̝̅̇ͧ ̯͙͈͖͙̈́͛̚w̮̺̻̜̔̈́ͬͩͮi̙̠̙͍̤̒ͩ̂̽l̺̣̣͕̩̥̟̈́̔ͨl̯̺̩̳̰͂̍̉̈́͌ ̼̼̬̟̞̘̏̈́̌͑ñ̩̞̲̯̤̅̉ͮo͓̝̠͌ͤ͊͗̿ͤṭ̯͂̈ͥͧ̂͆ ̳̦̣̃ͬ͒c͓ͥ̍͛̃o̔ͪ̈́m̓ͮe.

Jon pays for this knowledge with pain, every Mark on his body throbbing furiously.

_Breathe it in, and let it go._

_Breathe, let go._

_Focus._

At long last, Martin’s hacking subsides, leaving him utterly spent and hunched forward on the bed. Jon begins rubbing slow circles on his back with aching hands, calming him as he finally manages to regain his breath. After a few moments, Jon gently guides him to lie back against the pillows. Tears leak out of the corners of Martin’s eyes as he does so, and Jon’s heart clenches briefly with sympathy before Martin begins to laugh, a toothy grin spreading across his face.

“Wh…what is it, Martin?” he asks, confused.

“I think…I think that was the last of it, Jon,” he says, voice wobbling.

Jon inhales sharply, taking Martin’s hand.

“What? Really?”

“Y-yeah, really. I can feel it, I…I think it’s really gone. I’m not…I’m not _Lonely,_ anymore.”

More tears spill over Martin’s cheeks as he resumes his weak laughter. His own eyes brimming, threatening to cascade over a growing smile, Jon cups Martin’s face in his hands, wiping gently at his tears with his thumbs. He then moves upwards, stroking a hand through Martin’s soft curls, watching as the last remaining bits of the fog dissipate forever.

A few minutes later, Martin smiles up at him, playfully swatting at his forearm.

“Let’s not do _that_ again until I can breathe properly, though.”

At this, Jon laughs in earnest, before pressing his lips tenderly against Martin’s forehead.

_I love him I love him I love him I love him_

_And he loves me._

_He loves me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god they LOVE each other :,)
> 
> plain text script for the EYE:  
> -"Pneumonia Severity Index Score: a clinical tool for measuring the likelihood of mortality from pneumonia. A score is given based upon the following factors:"  
> -"38.7"  
> -"They will not come."
> 
> thank you all SO MUCH for reading, for leaving kudos, for bookmarking, and for commenting!! I really really appreciate hearing anything you guys have to say, and it just fills my heart with joy that you would take the time out of your day to leave me a little nugget of joy by doing any of those things <3
> 
> dare I say it...this is the penultimate chapter of this fic! I am honestly really sad-- I have loved taking this journey through Tenderness (TM) with you all. 
> 
> but never fear! I've got some things up my sleeve...perhaps...a daisira h/c fic set in this same universe! but who's to say... ;)
> 
> love you all!! come drop me a line or a prompt or whatever ya want on tumblr (same username). have a wonderful day!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mild body horror, illness
> 
> here it is...the very last chapter!! :,) I apologize for taking so long-- I wanted to make sure everything was resolved in a satisfying way, so I really hope I accomplished that. THANK YOU so much for reading!!! please enjoy!
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. The EYE speaks in glitched text. Plain script text for the EYE can be found in the end notes.)

“Ooh, sorry—”

“It’s alright, hang on—”

Martin leans away from Jon, panting and resting heavily against the side of the cottage while Jon unlocks the door. Dusk has begun to fall, casting their stoop in shadow, and Jon squints at his ring of keys to find the right one.

_Should really just get rid of them. They’re not of much use, anymore._

Upon seeing his continual improvement over the afternoon, the doctor had decided to send Martin home with a course of antibiotics, fever reducers, and an inhaler, provided he check in with the clinic if anything were to go wrong. While Jon is thankful not to have to make the journey to Aberdeen, he can feel frustration bubbling up in him nonetheless.

_I just need some sleep._

His hands shake.

_And the statements._

At last, he finds Daisy’s key and swings the door wide, draping Martin’s arm over his shoulders once again before they stumble inside. Martin’s breathing has become rapid, shallow, and crackling, his face visibly pale even in the dark of the unlit room. When Jon deposits him on the sofa, he immediately leans forward, bracing his upper body over his knees.

“Do you need the inhaler?”

Martin pauses for a moment, considering, before shaking his head.

“Wait it out,” he chokes between gasps.

“Alright.”

Walking around the coffee table, Jon sits beside him, listening intently as his breaths gradually slow, deepen, and come to rest in a more comfortable pattern. 

Jon’s head is _pounding_. Reflexively, he reaches a hand up to massage his right temple, and Martin regards him carefully, with eyes no longer fever-glassed.

“Jon, you…you look _awful_.”

Jon’s instinct is to bristle, to snap, to push Martin away. It is only with monumental effort that he shoves it down.

He chooses honesty instead.

“I know,” he replies lowly.

Martin angles his body toward him in concern.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice ticking upward.

“Look, we—we don’t need to talk about this right now, just don’t worry—”

“Jon. Talk to me.”

Martin’s voice leaves no room for argument. With a burdened sigh, Jon replies.

“Basira sent me some statements and they’ll be here in the morning. So I’ll be alright.”

“You’re hungry?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That is _not_ the same thing.”

At this, Jon looks away, exhaling sharply in frustration. 

_Calm down, just leave it be, he’s only trying to help._

“You should have told me,” Martin continues, tone drifting into scolding.

The anger hits Jon like a tidal wave, and he turns back, snarling.

“If you haven’t noticed, _Martin_ , we’ve been a bit busy of late.”

Martin’s eyes blow wide in shock.

“That’s not— right. Okay, then,” he replies, short and terse.

Grunting a noise of frustration, Jon stands abruptly, striding toward the kitchen. He stares out the window, fuming, clawing desperately at his anger in attempt to tear it down.

His head _throbs_.

Behind him, Martin takes a shaky inhale, before erupting into a deep coughing fit, forceful and exhausting. Even with his building worry, Jon cannot bring himself to turn around.

Martin collapses back against the sofa before speaking between pants.

“Look—why don’t you just—”

Suddenly breathless, he breaks off, lungs gurgling audibly. At this, Jon’s head whips around, brows furrowing when he sees Martin pitch forward again, gagging, a hand rubbing into his chest.

“Jon, I—I think I—I need—"

Jon tenses, ready to move. “You need the inhaler?”

“S-Sorry.”

Jon growls as he crosses the room to grab it, hands balling in anger that he knows is both irrational and misplaced.

“Just—stop apologizing.”

“S—okay.”

His soft reply sends a lightning bolt of guilt through Jon.

_What is wrong with you?_

_Christ’s sake._

Collecting the inhaler from his bag, he shakes it well before handing it to Martin. Jon watches as he pushes out all the air he can from overflowing lungs, before pressing down on the inhaler and drawing a long breath. As he exhales unsteadily, the heavy crackling morphs into coughing once more, and Martin presses a tissue quickly over his face, finally able to get something out after a massive effort.

He remains hunched over, regaining his breath, shoulders trembling in exhaustion. Jon is rooted to the spot, senseless irritation preventing him even from reaching out a hand of comfort.

At last, Martin looks up, giving Jon a quick nod before leaning back and dropping his gaze anxiously.

_L_ _ͧ_ _o_ _ͧ̄_ _o_ _͖͒_ _k_ _̭͎̎_ _̈́͗͋̇_ _w_ _̗̑͑ͣ_ _h_ _̻̪̩̞_ _a_ _͍̓ͯ͒̚_ _t_ _̤̗͐ͩ_ _̃_ _̥ͣͬͬ̑_ _y_ _̙̌̈ͦ͆_ _o_ _̙̞̔ͥ̈́_ _u_ _͓̮̜̾̆_ _'_ _̟_ _̃_ _͓̆_ _v_ _͍̓̓̚_ _e_ _̦̏ͭ_ _͚ͣ̋_ _d_ _ͅ_ _̃o_ _̋_ _n̉e,_ the Eye says with glee.

D̅oͭ̍ ̌̔ͩỵ̫̅ó̂̿͌u̳͓̓ͭ ͇͍̮ͤ̈ŵ̜̫͋͋a̰̩̩͖̩̘nͦ̀̉̉͆ͤẗ̩̬̣ͪ̅̑ ̲͕̖͎̒ͦ̂t̪̦ͧ̄ͫ̌ͣo̗̻͇̍ͭ̎̎̓ ͕̮͓͎̤̋͛̑s͚̱̫̘̲͗̌̈́e̳͇̙ͣ̾ͭ̆͑e̻̫ͫ̏͌̈̾̚ ͇͚͉̍̅͒͌̑w̬̼̓̅ͧ̅ͦ̂h͈̜̻̲̿̈́̑a͕̯̘ͯ̔ͧ̎t̩͓̲ͨ̑̇ͤ ͉ͩ͐͂̊́̃h̠̙̄ͦ̐̎a̗̝̔ͧ̉ͫp̟̥̿ͬͧp̯̩͉ͯ̔e̖̒̓̚nͥͯ͒s̯̙͋ ͐̌nͅeͅxt?

D̚õ͎ ̮̖͊y̥̠ͭȯ́̾͋u̩̙̭̚ ̹̙̰̒̓w̟̼͛͗ͥ̚a̘̻̣̖ͯ̈́n̖̦͑ͬ͒ͨ́t̠̋̐̓ͦ̆ͦ ̟͈͍̝̼̬ͨ͂t͈͕̘͙̲̋͌̂ȯ̲͕̮͙̤̓̚ ̙̥͔̫̺ͥͭͅͅḴ̻͙͉̟ͫ̿̽ͅN̩̬̦̍̇́͋͛͋O̝̪͈̬͎̹̠ͫ̓W͚̩̝͙̊ͦͩ̂̄ ̤͓̒͐̋̉̆ͣ͂w͙̫͕̩ͯ̄̌̐͗h̪̘̞̘̾̐̂͒͂a͓̺ͥ͐̔̇̇̐ͥt̼͖͉ͥ͂̓̈́̚ͅ ̱͇̦̀̿̆ͫ̃̏ỷ̥͙̩̽̑̏̀ͣo̜̗͔̩̲͚̎͋͐u͈͙̠͉͙ͦ̈̈́'͍̺̮̌͐ͪ̀̃r͚̹͔͉̘͒ͮĕ͓̬̟̻̑̊ ̣͈̽͐̑̿̓d̲̖͉̓͗ͬȏ̤̤͔̎ͭi̱̠̦͑̅ṅ̫͋͑g͚̻͐ͩ ̖̣ͣt͋̐o͖ͫ ̾him?

_GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT_

Jon fights back as much as he is able, forcing his body to sit on the edge of the coffee table, at a right angle to Martin.

_I need to apologize._

I͚ ͇̑c͙͋a̪̚n͕̊'͊tͩ.

Devastated, Jon buries his head in his hands. 

“Look, why don’t you go for a walk or something. Get some air.”

Jon turns, looking at him incredulously, but remains silent.

“It’ll do you some good. I know how…upset the hunger makes you, and you’re clearly exhausted, so…just go, give yourself some space.”

Martin’s words are kind, but his tone has tensed. Furious at himself, Jon tries desperately to will away his pulsing anger.

_He’s too good for me._

“You’ll be alright here for a bit?” he asks, as gently as he can muster.

“Yes, Jon. Go. It’ll do you good,” Martin replies, voice kept intentionally flat.

Jon knows he’s right, _Knows_ he’ll be calmer afterwards—and makes a decision. He needs to communicate his remorse to Martin somehow, no matter how much the Eye protests it. Leaning over, every instinct screaming at him to stop, he plants a kiss on top of Martin’s head.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice muffled by curls.

Jon strides quickly across the room and out the door.

Shivering, Jon pulls his hands inside his jacket sleeves and tips his head down to brace against the cruel wind. Night has truly fallen, and he has been walking for the better part of an hour beneath the glow of resplendent constellations. A sense of awe envelopes him. In a meditation of sorts, he’s been naming each one as he finds them, choosing to focus on the magnificence of this part of creation that even the Beholding cannot fully understand.

Now, however, he is just cold. Cold, calm, and filled with regret.

_Martin was right. As always._

Reaching the front door, his numbed fingers fumble with the frosted metal for a moment before he manages to open it. Heat washes over his face as soon as he enters, the tips of his ears and nose burning as they regain feeling. Even with the warmth, the house is entirely shrouded in darkness. Jon flips on the light over the entryway, revealing Martin where he lies on the couch, having propped himself up on a mountain of pillows. Soft snores echo around the cottage.

_He’s too good for me._

With a sigh, Jon leaves his coat and boots in the entryway and walks as quietly as possible to the refrigerator, taking out the leftover soup to reheat it. It’s not enough, not _nearly_ enough to cover over the hurt he’s inflicted, and he knows it. 

_But it might be a start._

Within a few minutes, the simmering soup fills the cottage with fragrance, wafting into every dust-laden corner. Jon turns when he hears Martin stirring behind him, groaning as he sits up. Immediately, he reaches out a shaky arm for a tissue, dissolving into yet another fit of churning coughs that Jon knows will bring him no relief.

A hot knife of guilt stabs through him. 

YͬOͩ͋Ṳͭ ̙͇̮M̬̮̹ͅẠ̞̥̾D̺̩͛̅ͬE͍̱̔̌͆ ̣̝̃͊̅̋I͈͕͙ͤ̏ͬȚ͕̟ͪ̋ͮͣ ͚̩͕̝͑̈̚W̺͒ͬ̒̂̉̆̋O͙̣̘̽̈́̑̀̚R̺̖̻͙ͩ̾̇̾͛S͈̻̗̲͇ͭ͋̈́ͦE̖̞̫ͮ̅͛̓̔͂ ̝̝̬͈̞͔͒̎̇͛Ỹ͕͈̱̘͓̥͓̏ͨÔ̮̑ͯ́ͪ̋̾͛̈U͈̟̰̼̪ͪ̓̇̽̂ͥ ͎̳̖̠́̿̒̑̒̉ͬM͍̹͔͍̦̎̍̈͂ͨ̚Ạ̣̖̋ͯͧͭ̒ͤ͋ͧD͖͇̳̼̳̈́̽ͪ̿̈̊E̻̠͖ͫ͒̋͐͋̇͛̚ ͎̬̭͋̇̑͂̐̐͑̓I͈͉͔̒̽̈́ͭ̈ͩͣ̊Ṱ͈͆̆ͥ̐̀̾̽̉ͅ ̤͍̣͉̦͍͂̑̑̎̈W̳̫̰͑͆ͪ͆̔ͣͯ̂O̬̘͇̺ͤ͂̊͐̾͊ͅR̙̰̒ͮ͂͗͒ͫ̎ͪS̪̰̻̻͍ͥ͊ͩ̚ͅḚ̱̤͌̔̐͌͒ͪ̀ ̮ͧͦ̽̃̽͂͂̊Y̱̻̌̔͋͌̌̌̚Ő̮̥͈̭͙̲͊̎U͕͚̩͕ͫ̒̐̾ ̭̟̜͆̓̽̈́ͅM͕̯̓̍̊̈̈A̮ͯͭͩ̓̅̚D͚̗̞̩̙̏E͓͈̿͊̂ͯ ̟̮̤̝̼I̱͈ͬ́̾T̺̳ͧͫ ̫̩ͯ̓Wͧ̎ͩŎ̊R͖̜S͋Ẹ

Jon gives himself a moment, taking a few measured breaths with eyes closed.

_STOP. Breathe. Focus._

As the fit comes to an unproductive end, Jon steels himself, and brings Martin a glass of water along with his prescribed fever-reducers. He stares in silence for a moment as Martin looks up, regarding him warily.

“Are you…are you alright?” Jon asks hesitantly.

Martin’s eyes soften a bit at this, though the look of suspicion has not entirely left him. Nodding, he reaches out to take Jon’s offerings and mouths a “thank you.” Jon shifts his weight uncomfortably as he watches Martin’s movements, still a bit unsteady as he swallows the pills and downs the glass of water.

“Would you like some soup? I’ve reheated it, I-I can bring it to you.”

Martin clears his throat painfully before replying, voice wrecked, and the beginnings of a smile on his face.

“That sounds lovely, dear. Thank you.”

_Dear dear dear dear_

Heart skipping a beat, he practically bounds back into the kitchen to fetch a bowl for both of them, spilling just a bit on his shirt in the process. He hurriedly places Martin’s bowl in front of him on the coffee table before nervously taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, desperately hoping it’s the right decision.

Martin huffs out a laugh, turning to face Jon with an amused grin.

“I suppose you ought to call this ‘Apology Soup.’”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair, and Martin continues his half-hearted, uncomfortable laughter.

“M-Martin, I—”

Martin stammers over him in a rush, anxiety dripping from every word.

“Look, we all have our moments, Jon, a-and I know you’ve got a lot to shoulder right now. You’re _hungry_ , for god’s sake. And exhausted, because of me, a-and—”

Jon shakes his head violently at this, interrupting him immediately.

“No! No, Martin, it’s not…it’s not because of you, ever, I swear.”

Martin meets his gaze tentatively, eyes starting to brim—from illness or emotion, Jon could never be sure.

“I mean, it’s true in part—I _am_ hungry, and the Eye is _not_ pleased with me, but…none of that is yours to bear. None of it. Looking after you while you’re ill is…well, it doesn’t come naturally to me, but…I want to do it. I _want_ to show you that I care for you, always. But the Eye—”

“—the Eye wants to cause you pain,” Martin finishes, balling up a fist. “And it’s using me to do it.”

“…perhaps.”

Martin nods, thinking for a moment while running a hand through his hair. With a sigh, he continues.

“Look, it—it wasn’t… _nice_ , and I’d prefer it hadn’t happened, but…I forgive you. Because I know you’re sorry—”

He gestures at the soup.

“—and I know it’s not entirely your fault anyway. It’s the Eye, and it’s hungry, and…I understand how draining it can be to suddenly become a caretaker. You can’t deny that, not…not with me,” he says, eyes filled with intense sincerity.

Jon shakes his head incredulously, turning bodily to face him.

_You’re too good for me you’re too good you’re too good_

“Martin, I…I had no right to take it out on you. There is no excuse, not even the hunger, not even the Eye. I…I love you, and I’m _so sorry_.”

Jon’s voice breaks for just a moment, and he blinks away the sudden moisture pooling in the corners of his vision. Martin reaches out a hand, placing it on Jon’s knee and gazing deeply into his eyes.

“I love you too, Jon. You’re forgiven,” he says, before giving Jon’s knee a small shake.

This, at last, pulls a smile onto Jon’s face, and he allows himself to relax into the sofa as they eat in silence.

The next day finds Martin utterly spent, and Jon battling a pounding headache he had been sure would fade with sleep. It takes him all morning to work up the energy, but Martin eventually manages to drag himself from the bed, leaning heavily on Jon as they trudge down the stairs. Neither can manage to do anything but sit in silence, Jon curling up in the armchair while Martin stretches out on the couch. 

Jon’s getting desperate now, his entire body shaking. All he can think about is the terrible, gnawing hunger, constantly clawing at his insides for control. His thoughts are cyclical and uniform:

_They’re coming they’re coming they’re coming_

_Just hold on just hold on just hold on_

_They’re coming they’re coming they’re coming_

At last—

A knock at the door.

Static immediately fills Jon’s head, and when he looks down, he’s standing at the door with thick envelope in his hands. With horror, he feels a sickeningly wide grin plastered across his face, saliva spilling between his teeth, eyes opening on all corners of his face.

“Jon?” Martin calls from the sofa, sounding slightly alarmed.

D͓ọ̹n̬̺'̦̦͗t̲͆̚ ͉͛̓ͭt̺̀̅ͩũ̾͂̄r̪̈͒͆ň̀ͥ̄ ̖̘̍ͦa̘͍̗r̘̬̍ő̰ṳ͗n̖d͆

Hͮe̻͑'̬̔l̻͂ͩl̘̙ͨͮ ͊̈́ͬ͂b̯̓̾͌ͫë̮͕̖͖ ͙͓̺͇ͥ͂f͕̐́̀͌͒r͓͙͚̳̈͗i̪̮̦ͬ̀̄̉g̪̗̲ͣ̍͛̈́h̯͈̣ͥ͂̈̔t̰̥ͬ̉̃ͬ̊è͍͍ͬ̉̍̀n͔̣̤̭̽ͭͅe̼͙̎̐ͪ͂ͅd̳̲̞̟̈́̔̉ ̦̝̭ͣ͒̀͒ĭ͕̮̿̒̚ͅḟ͎̰̱͙͂̍ ̗̣̆͌̈́̉h̟͒̄ͧ̃̂e̠͊̐̓̓ͅ ̟̫̰ͧ̊s͈̐̒̽͒e̤̥̣ͦe̩̍͐̐s͓̖͐ ̘ͪy̥͈o͇û

Jon shoves the corners of his mouth down, wiping it with his sleeve.

_Monster._

“I’ll just go upstairs and do this, Martin. Don’t…don’t look at me, alright? I’m going to turn around now,” he replies, voice shaking with effort.

He does. Martin has refused to look away.

Eyes growing wide beneath his glasses, his mouth falls open in surprise.

_But not fear._

“Well, that is…certainly unexpected,” he says, initial shock melting into a warm smile.

Jon cannot reply, mouth hanging open in astonishment for a moment before he snaps it shut.

“What? It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” he continues as he roots around on the couch beside him for a moment, then waves his headphones in the air. “Come sit down.”

Jon can’t help but bark out a laugh.

_Unbelievable._

Martin swings his legs over the side of the sofa, straining to pull himself upward to sitting with significant difficulty. At this, Jon’s trance seems to break, and he crosses the room quickly, pushing Martin’s shoulders gently back against the pillows. 

“No no, don’t—just lie back, darling.”

He then sits at the opposite end of the sofa, pulling Martin’s legs to rest over his lap.

With a giddy grin, Martin slips on his headphones and pulls his blanket closer.

At long last, the Archivist drinks his fill.

_Oh, damn it all._

_Should have known._

Tucked away in the bathroom for the moment, Jon rubs at his steadily dripping nose, willing it to _stop being useless_. All day, he’s been downing glass after glass of water, trying to ease the persistent tickle that’s made its home in the back of his throat. He’s quite sure he’s got a fever now, if the sheen on his forehead is anything to go by.

_Wonderful. Just wonderful._

Martin has made significant improvements over the past few days, using the inhaler less and less as time passes. His coughing is still painful and deep and _awful_ , and he’s not able to move around much without becoming winded, but his fever is just barely perceptible now.

Jon, on the other hand, is finding it increasingly hard to focus.

Later that day, Jon stands in the kitchen, washing the dishes from their lunch. His vision swims dizzyingly as the tickling at the back of his nose and throat pulls tears to his eyes, and he constantly sniffs at the building fullness of his sinuses. When Martin begins coughing loudly from the living room, Jon can’t help but feel overwhelmed with relief. He hastens to grab a paper towel, blowing into it hastily, hoping the sound will be drowned out.

His hopes are proven to be in vain, however, when this involuntarily pulls a dry, hacking cough from him—one that he cannot stop in time with Martin’s.

_Shit_.

He can feel Martin’s eyes boring into him even before he turns around.

“Oh _no_. Did I get you ill, love?” he asks, guilt lacing up every word.

“No no no, it’s just allergies,” Jon stammers, washing his hands.

“You’ve never had allergies before.”

Jon turns back around in surprise. “How would you know?”

“I’m really quite observant, dear. And we _have_ worked together for a number of years.”

At this, Jon sighs wetly, tipping his head back in exasperation. The movement causes something to shift, and he scrambles to tear off a paper towel in response, pressing it to his face—

Several forceful sneezes tear their way out, leaving pulsing, painful sinuses in their wake.

“Bless you, love. That sounds awful.”

Jon sighs miserably.

_Nothing for it now._

With reluctance, he slinks back into the living room, flopping down on the couch morosely. Martin pushes the box of tissues toward him wordlessly, and Jon mutters his thanks before trying to clear his head.

When all is said and done, he leans back against the sofa, sighing.

“Jon, I am _so_ sorry,” Martin says, anxiety touching every word.

Jon can’t help but laugh.

“Martin, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am, though.”

“You’re what? Sorry or ridiculous?”

“Well…both, I suppose.”

Jon grins widely at this, and Martin can’t help but mirror him. After a moment, Jon scoots closer, laying his head to rest on Martin’s broad shoulder. Planting a kiss on his burning forehead, Martin gently stretches his own blanket them both.

“ _Stop it_ , Martin, sit back down!”

Jon’s voice is in tatters, but he puts as much force behind these words as he can muster, pulling at Martin’s arm from where he’s curled up on the sofa.

“ _You_ stop it, Jon. You’re ill,” Martin says matter-of-factly, before pressing a hand against Jon’s forehead, frowning at the heat he finds there, then walking determinedly toward the kitchen.

Jon throws his arms wide, sputtering in disbelief.

_“ You’re ill, _for Christ’s sake!”

Martin huffs as he flicks on the kettle, turning around with one hand on his hip.

“Sure. _My_ fever’s gone, though. Can’t say the same for you.”

Jon groans in exasperation, sniffing heavily before resting his head in his hands. Rubbing at his painful sinuses, he begs silently for something to loosen, before moving on to his throbbing temples.

He hears Martin puttering in the kitchen, shaking pills out of a bottle. Turning to look, he watches as Martin fills a glass of water, picks up the fever reducers, and—stops dead in his tracks.

He sways before slumping heavily into a kitchen chair, breathing hard and rapid.

“Martin!”

Jon is on his feet in a split-second, and goes immediately for his inhaler, shaking it as he half-jogs over to him. Martin takes it gratefully, hands trembling, and Jon sinks down into the chair adjacent to him.

Face ashen, he draws the medicine into his lungs, before beginning yet another painful, congested fit that leaves him exhausted and gasping for air. Jon shakes his head frustratedly as he watches.

_Stubborn fool._

After a few minutes of regaining his breath, Martin looks up at Jon sheepishly, leaning his head onto one fist.

“We’re a right mess, aren’t we?” he smirks, eyes streaming.

Jon can’t help but chuckle in spite of himself as he stands to finish making their tea.

Two weeks later finds them strolling through the Highland countryside. 

Martin still tires easily, and Jon makes sure not to push them too hard, enforcing a slow pace with many rests. Although his Jon’s illness has been entirely gone for several days now, Martin’s got them both bundled up, insisting that Jon wear a hat with an obscene orange pompom and a matching scarf. For his part, Jon knows better than to argue when Martin’s fussing.

They’ve been walking without rest for nearly twenty minutes now, the longest Martin has gone to date. Autumn wind whips up the fallen leaves along the path, swirling around them in a vortex of orange and yellow and red, drawing delighted laughter from Martin. Jon can’t help but beam at him.

_God, I love him._

Looking at him now, his soft smile has become near permanent, freckled cheeks rounded and rosy beneath his glasses. Jon has recently trimmed his hair, cropping the sides close and leaving long curls on top, which now blow in the crisp breeze. Dark roots are beginning the process of replacing the faded white, and the fresh stubble of his beard is following suit.

Though he knows he’s staring, Jon cannot bear to pull his eyes away.

_He is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen._

Martin has walked ahead of him now, unaware that Jon has not followed until he’s reached the bottom of the small incline. Looking around for him, the face that greets Martin is lopsided, grinning, adoring, scarred, and—

Jon.

“What is it?” Martin calls out, giggling.

Jon blinks for a moment, stock still, before joining Martin at the bottom of the hill. Slipping a hand into Martin’s gloved one, he lifts himself to his tiptoes, brushing their wind-chapped lips together.

“Nothing at all, darling,” he murmurs against him before lacing his arms around Martin’s neck, deepening the kiss when he lets out a noise of pleasant surprise. His hands snake around Jon’s waist, drawing him closer, sending lightning through Jon’s entire being. Arms still firmly hanging around him, Jon pulls away for a moment to look at him, greeted with the warm hazel of Martin’s eyes.

“Just that…I think you’re it, for me.”

Martin flushes scarlet at this, grin widening before he whips Jon around swiftly, pulling him into a dip, causing Jon to clutch at him in surprise. Strong arms suspend him above the ground effortlessly. 

“Woah, M-Martin!”

They lock eyes, the sun above illuminating Martin’s head like a halo.

It takes Jon’s breath away.

“I think you’re it for me too.”

The world around them, everything that grows darker with each day, fades away in the warmth of their embrace. They are certain of only one thing—

Whatever comes, they will weather the storm as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and there you have it!
> 
> let me just say this: you all are SO WONDERFUL. thank you so much for encouraging me through this fic-- as a newbie, your response to this work means more to me than you could ever know. thank you for taking the time out of your day to read, to leave kudos, to bookmark, and to comment! 
> 
> you can always find me @celosiaa on tumblr if you want to chat, send a prompt, whatever it is you want to do :)
> 
> have a wonderful, amazing, perfect day!! thank you for everything <3
> 
> (plain text script for the EYE:  
> -Look what you've done  
> -Do you want to see what happens next?  
> -Do you want to KNOW what you're doing to him?  
> -I can't  
> -YOU MADE IT WORSE YOU MADE IT WORSE YOU MADE IT WORSE  
> -Don't turn around  
> -He'll be frightened if he sees you)


End file.
